


my mind forgets to remind me (you're a bad idea)

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Professor Bellamy, Student Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Strangely enough, though, it is one of the things she notices about him first when he walks into her Ancient Civilizations class.Oh, she thinks dumbly to herself at the flex of his muscles under the thin material of his shirt, the unruly curls that keeps falling into his eyes. That blindingly white smile.Oh.Or: Clarke develops feelings for her History professor. It goes from there.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, remember when the last time I wrote a long multi-chap fic was way back in S3, and it was hogwarts!au? Anyway, I guess I'm back to writing (relatively) shorter chapter fics, but if you're worried about updates and what not, well, rest easy knowing that I already have the next few chapters written in advance. Fic is based on [this](https://twitter.com/prosciuttoes/status/1002562011723542528) prompt if y'all are curious!

It’s not so much an issue than it is a minor annoyance, at first.

“Look, I get it, okay?” Clarke huffs, hitting at the enter key with way more force than necessary. “We’re in college. It’s a hotbed of hormones and questionable decisions, but this?” she breaks off, shaking her head. “You have to admit, this is a whole new level of stupid, even for Ark.”

Wells inches her laptop away surreptitiously. “I don’t know,” he says lightly, amused in a way that makes her bristle. “Maybe it’s not a big deal like you’re making it out to be.”

She scoffs, levelling a glare over at him. “Ratemyprofessor is a serious institution, Wells.”

“Only when it suits you. Didn’t you dock Singh’s rating once because you thought her powerpoint slides came straight from the nineties?”

It’s true, but it’s not like Clarke has the energy to explain the aesthetical importance of presentation material. Biting back a scathing remark, she brings up the next page of comments, groaning when it’s more of the same. “Honestly, if I have to read one more comment about how Professor Blake has _perfectly_ tousled hair—”

“— he has really nice hair, I’ll give him that—”

He doesn’t manage to dodge the balled up post-it she throws his way, bursting into peals of laughter when she shoots him a threatening look. “Alright alright, I’m going,” Wells says wryly, raising his hands up in mock surrender. “In the meantime, why don’t you stop stewing about this and make your own judgements during his class?”

“I’m planning on it,” she mutters, turning her glare back onto the screen before her; to yet another comment on just how, you know, angular Professor Blake’s jaw is in certain lighting. Blech.

Strangely enough, though, it is one of the things she notices about him first when he walks into her Ancient Civilizations class.

 _Oh_ , she thinks dumbly to herself at the flex of his muscles under the thin material of his shirt, the unruly curls that keeps falling into his eyes. That blindingly white smile. _Oh._

It gets progressively worse the second he opens his mouth, really, his voice low and dark and hypnotic. Professor Blake talks with his hands, and has the tendency to go off tangent at the slightest distraction, but it’s clear that he’s passionate about the subject at hand and that he cares if they do, too.

He’s smart and _funny_ and actually engaging in a way that makes her want to sit up and pay attention.

It’s… really attractive, if she’s being entirely honest.

 _Fine_ , she manages, sneaking her phone out of her pocket to tap out a quick text to Wells, _I guess I can see the appeal._

Her phone gives a short, angry buzz just seconds later, which is surprising considering how Wells’s notorious for replying texts up to months late. Carefully, she eases her phone out once more, glancing down—

“Miss Griffin?”

She startles, nearly upending the entire contents of her bag in her haste to shove her phone aside. It’s too late, though, considering how he’s looking _right_ at her, brows raised and arms crossed.

Keeping her face carefully blank, she wills her blush away. “Yes?”

He narrows his eyes, gaze roving from the phone face-up on her desk to the pencil sticking out from the messy strands of her bun. She can feel her cheeks heat up once more at the scrutiny; at the judgemental tilt to his chin as he regards the messy sprawl of papers around her.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, his voice deceptively mild.

It’s an effort not to look away, not to concede to the intensity of his stare; his dark eyes focused and intent on hers. “No,” she gets out, lacing her fingers together to hold them steady. “I was just—”

“Miss Griffin, are you aware that participation is worth twenty percent of your grade?”

“Yes, but—”

“And are you aware that I asked you a question?”

“I was just,” Clarke stops, biting at her lip to stem the flow of words. There’s no excuse for what she did— for getting distracted in that split second by the rumors and assumptions and opinions surrounding her professor. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. “No.”

He doesn’t say anything to that right away, just continues regarding her with that cool, even stare of his. Then, clearing his throat, “I’d recommend you leave your social activities for after class, Miss Griffin.”

It’s not a unfair thing to say, but it’s _humiliating_ , all the same. Resisting the urge to slump in her seat, she forces herself to straighten her spine, setting her pen back to the page.

He tells them about Mesopotamia, and about the Germanic tribes that led to the downfall of the Roman empire, and about the papers they’ll have to write. He gives out the syllabus, and mentions classroom rules, and even answers a few questions on projects.

(He doesn’t look at her once, throughout. She tries not to take it personally.)

 

+

Clarke makes sure to be fifteen minutes early for his class, the next time.

But as it turns out, she’s not the only one with that plan in mind. The front few rows are filled up by the time she ducks through the door, coffee in hand and marked-up readings in the other. There’s a line of people up by his desk, already, and she barely manages to catch a glimpse of his dark curls through the throng.

Frowning, she drops into the nearest empty seat, starts on the next chapter of readings until class starts.

“Okay,” Professor Blake starts, bringing his hands together into a resounding clap. “Who can tell me about the different periods that characterized Ancient Greece?”

Her hand shoots up with just about everyone else’s.

She can feel his gaze on her, the weight of it burning a hole against her cheek. His tie is loose around his neck, hair askew, and she can see freckles spattering his tanned, exposed forearm from here. It’s distracting, as is the way he’s looking at her.

Then it slides away, landing on someone else. “Mr. Shaw?”

Clarke tamps down the disappointment flooding her chest at it— at the way he never quite seems to make eye contact with her, at how _small_ she feels without him even having to do anything.

She puts her hand up at every question. He doesn’t call on her once.

 

+

“He hates me,” she declares, flopping back onto Raven’s sagging mattress. She’s the only one of them with a single, which everyone likes to shamelessly utilize. Clarke included.

She doesn’t even look up from the toaster she’s dissembling. “Oh, you heard about Murphy?”

“I’m— who’s Murphy?”

“You don’t know him?” Raven frowns, tapping her soldering iron against the side of her desk, releasing a flurry of dark flakes. “Public urination guy. Oh wait, did you mean Lincoln?”

“Lincoln?” she says, a small noise of disbelief escaping in the same breath. “You’re telling me that Lincoln Woods— the _nicest_ guy in the arts programme— _hates_ me?”

Raven waves her off, deliberately blasé. “Hate is a strong word, Clarke. But, uh, yeah. He’s not your biggest fan.”

“I helped him with his abstract piece!”

“For the low, low cost of his notes for visual culture,” she mutters, sobering the second she shoots her a pained look. “Which I admire you for! But you have to admit, you’re not exactly miss congeniality.”

Clarke huffs out a impatient noise, slumping back into the messy pile of cushions by the foot of her bed. “And I don’t care to be,” she points out. “It’s just— this is different, okay? It’s my grade at stake, here.”

“Sure,” she says, dropping the iron back into the pile of twisted metal before her. “Who are we talking about, again?”

“Professor Blake.”

“Professor Blake from the History department?”

“The very one.” She nods, pressing down on her knuckles and releasing them with a satisfying _pop_. “He caught me firing off a quick text to Wells on the first day, so I’m basically excommunicated now.”

That seems to get her attention, at least. “Yeah, he can be pretty intense,” Raven shrugs, reaching over to swat her bare feet off her pillow. “I was in his class for Age of Revolution, and he basically decimated Sterling for logging onto Facebook.”

“Jesus.”

“But he’s not a bad guy,” she adds, much to Clarke’s chagrin. “He’s just— he likes students who give a shit, you know? He’s probably the type who thinks you’re depriving others of a chance to learn if you don’t give a hundred percent.”

She groans, throwing her arm over her face. “Well, that’s… judgmental! And close minded, and unfair, to base someone entirely off the first interaction—”

“Like you don’t?”

“I’m not a professor,” she grumbles. “It’s his job to be impartial.”

Another shrug, this one more flippant than the last. “Easier said than done,” Raven says, turning back to her project. Clarke opens her mouth, all ready to argue about _whose side is she really on, anyway_ , when Raven continues, “You should prove him wrong, though. Show him that you give a shit, you know?”

It’s an effort not to beg her for step-by-step instructions on how to do that, so she settles for propping herself up on her elbows instead. “Easier said than done when the guy refuses to acknowledge me entirely.”

“You’re Clarke fucking Griffin,” Raven says absently, a smile quirking at her lips. “You’ll figure it out.”

 

+

It’s more of the same, during her next class.

It’s not like she’s not expecting it, really, but it stings all the same. She compensates by taking detailed notes that border slightly on obsessive, adding diagrams to boot while she waits for the class to clear out. It takes a good twenty minutes, even _after_ he promises to address everyone else’s questions in the next session.

He deflates the second they leave, sagging back against the dry-erase board. Like this, he looks unbelievably, unquestionably _young_ ; just a few years older than she is. The sight of it sends a wave of sympathy and frustration through her, all at once.

She _knows_ it’s not easy fielding a thousand and one questions about their assigned essays that can be found in the syllabus, or answering queries that can be resolved with a quick Google search. She _knows_ it’s difficult, dealing with the kiss-ups and the clueless and God knows what else.

Still, though. It doesn’t excuse the way he’s behaving towards her.

Taking a deep breath, she gathers her books. Gets to her feet. “Professor Blake?”

He snaps to attention immediately, all traces of vulnerability gone in a split second. “Miss Griffin,” he says, straightening. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I was being really quiet,” she gets out, closing the distance between them. He doesn’t seem all that tall from a distance, so it comes almost as a rude shock that he towers over her, despite her earlier assumption.

She swallows hard, steels her spine. “Just like how I’ve been throughout your classes, in fact. _Despite_ wanting to participate.”

He blinks, something akin to shock shuttering over his face. “Miss Griffin—”

“No, I’m not done,” she cuts in, grabbing onto her elbows to keep them from shaking. “Look, I know I messed up on the first day, okay? But it doesn’t give you an excuse to write me off as some slacker who couldn’t give a shit about her grades. I’ve— I’m _three_ chapters ahead, in readings! You made a offhand comment about Akkadian last week, and I looked it up. And I thought your analysis of how the ruling elite was non-existent in ancient cultures was goddamn excellent. And I could have— would have— told you all of this in class, during discussion, if you’d have just let me.”

The expression on her face is downright unreadable, but she takes it as a good sign that he hasn’t started yelling, yet. Or throwing things.

“Miss Griffin,” he tries, and she shakes her head before he can finish, barreling on.

“And maybe you’ll say that it’s all in my head, that I’m _overreacting_ , or something, but it’s pretty blatant when you pick Finn Collins over me to answer your question on Elamites.”

“I’m—”

“I mean, that guy? He thought BC stood for the British Columbia in a Ancient Civilizations class. He puts potato chips in bagels. He eats them in class and distracts everyone with his loud, _unnecessary_ chewing.”

She’s pretty sure she’s not imagining the tilt of his lips at that, the way he seems to be holding back on a laugh. It makes her feel strangely pleased, the warmth of it easing the cold, clammy fear twisting at her gut just moments before.

“So, yeah,” she finishes, wiping at her sweaty palms surreptitiously. “I just thought you should know.”

He doesn’t say anything to that right away, just looks at her, brows raised. Then, calmly, “You done?”

“For now.”

“Okay,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. It’s a nervous gesture, as is the way he bites at his lip, and she tries not to let on how much she likes it. “Miss Griffin, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was, uh, _singling_ you out. I know it may be hard to believe, but that really wasn’t my intention.”

His expression is sheepish, now, the sincerity in his voice undeniable, and it’s getting very, very hard to pretend to be entirely unaffected. She’s… _charmed_ , despite herself, and the revelation kind of makes her want to put her head through a wall. “Okay.”

“And since we’ll still be discussing the Akkadian Empire next week, I strongly suggest you share your thoughts with the class then.”

She has to clamp her lips together to keep her smile from showing. “Okay.”

“So if that will be all, Miss Griffin—”

“Clarke,” she corrects, the words slipping out before she can stop them. “I’m— I’d really prefer if you call me Clarke.”

A beat, and there’s a moment when she thinks he might say no, somehow, his throat bobbing as he looks at her, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides.

“See you next week, Clarke,” he says, and she waits until he’s out of the room before she releases the breath she’s been holding, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was honestly floored by all the kudos and comments from the last chap alone? So as promised, here is the next chapter! I'm gonna try my best and keep to a schedule of weekly postings depending on how busy I get @ work, but yeah, the next few chapters are already written out and ready to go, so... Enjoy!

She’s in the line for coffee when the rain descends.

It comes out of nowhere _,_ soaking her in the _seconds_ it takes for her to scramble into the nearest alcove. There’s water pooling in her socks, in the crevice between her neck and collarbone, in her pockets, even.

Shivering, Clarke pulls at her shirt, unsticking it from skin. From the looks of it, this downpour isn’t going to stop anytime soon, which is unfortunate considering she’s already late for class.

“Could be worse,” she mutters, which is just about when she spots a dark shape _hurtling_ towards her; colliding into her with enough force to send her staggering.

She gives a involuntary squeak, lurching back just as a pair of arms grab onto her, hauling her up.

It takes a second for her vision to clear, another for her thoughts to register the person standing before her. “Oh,” she manages, blinking. “It’s you.”

Professor Blake blinks back at her. “Sound a little less excited, won’t you?”

“It’s an effort,” she says, before she can help herself. It’s more rude than it is teasing, but he laughs anyway; the sound low and gravelly and hoarse, sending a shiver down her spine. “Are you— on the way to teach a class, or…?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Environmental History. Though considering that I’m already fifteen minutes late, I won’t be surprised if half the class has already upped and left.”

She shrugs, realizing only then that he’s still holding onto her, his fingers a warm weight on the inside of her forearm. “I highly doubt that.”

He cocks his chin over at her, curious. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh c’mon,” she snorts. “You’re good, okay? You’re really good at what you do. Every single one of your students I’ve talked to, they _adore_ you. And your reviews—” she stops before she can give herself away, shaking her head. “Trust me, they’ll wait.”

A beat as he appears to process this, a flush coloring his cheeks. It’s barely evident with his bronzed skin and in the half-dark of the alcove, but she’s standing close enough to make it out— and there it is again, that stupidly, _pleased_ feeling of having incited a reaction out of him.

“That’s,” he frowns, as if just noticing how close they are to each other. Carefully, he releases her, taking a step back. “Never mind,” he says hastily, angling his face away. “Whose class are you missing to wait out this rain?”

“Professor Diyoza’s.”

“Oh. Ethics?”

“Studio art,” Clarke replies, crossing her arms over her chest. She feels strangely cold ever since he’s let go of her, but it’s possible that it’s just the wind picking up. “I’m a art major.”

That pulls a chuckle out of him. “Makes sense.”

It’s probably harmless, but she still bristles at the implication all the same. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, except that it makes sense now, with the references you made in your paper,” Professor Blake says, giving a pointed raise of his brow. “Leda and the Swan? Salome?”

“It’s relevant to my topic!”

“Yeah, and _depressing._ What’s wrong with water lilies?”

“You’re one to talk,” she huffs, planting her hands on her hips. “Your favorite Greek myth is Orpheus and Eurydice. You mention Wuthering Heights every _chance_ you get in class.”

His lips give a slight twitch at the corners; a half smile. “Only when it’s relevant to the topic.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you need to read books that are relevant to the topic _and_ aren’t such a cry-fest.”

“Sure, right about when you stop mooning over tragic pieces of art,” he says nonchalantly, leaning back against the curved space of the alcove. Then, smirking, “I have recommendations, when you’re ready.”

“If you say starry night, I might scream,” she grumbles, ducking at her chin so he won’t catch her smile; the rain dissolving into a muffled hum as he tells her about them, the thunder that follows thrumming in sync with her pulse.

  


+

 

 **To:** Bellamy Blake _[_ [ _bellblake@ark.edu.org_ ](mailto:bellblake@ark.edu.org) _]_

 

 **From:** Clarke Griffin _[_[ _cgriff@ark.edu.org_](mailto:cgriff@ark.edu.org) _]_

 

 **Subject:** have you considered nicholas sparks tho

 

I’m told that the notebook is a masterpiece, apparently. AND comes with a happy ending. Ish. Kind of.

p.s. if that doesn’t work out, try this one by becky chambers.

  


Clarke.

  


+

 

 **From:** Bellamy Blake _[_ [ _bellblake@ark.edu.org_ ](mailto:bellblake@ark.edu.org) _]_

 

 **To** : Clarke Griffin _[_ [ _cgriff@ark.edu.org_ ](mailto:cgriff@ark.edu.org) _]_

 

 **Subject** : please step away from the van gogh

 

Like you can scare me with the prospect of Nicholas Sparks. I practically raised my baby sister, Clarke, The Notebook was a _requirement_ all throughout ages 13-18.

p.s. I’m only reading your recommendation to prove you wrong, let’s be clear on that

p.p.s. It’s not half bad, so far.

  


Bellamy Blake

Department of History

Ark University

  


+

Raven’s the one who finds it.

“You’re gonna love it,” she announces, nodding approvingly when Clarke steps out of the room. She gives a mocking twirl, for effect— not that Raven notices, with the way she’s rambling. “It’s small. Quiet _,_ ” she continues, sliding her key into the lock. “Obscure art on the walls, and weird drink combinations. I’m telling you, babe, it’s the one.”

She snorts, linking her arm through hers as they emerge out into the open. “You said that about the last one.”

“The last one didn’t have a pool table.”

As it turns out, she’s right. The Dropship is claustrophobically tiny, with sticky bar stools and loose floorboards and peeling paint, but she _likes_ it. She likes that there’s a jukebox in the corner that plays on quarters, and a monosyllabic bartender that serves them pretty much everything but what they ordered, and peanuts that they have in bowls.

It’s nice. _Different_ , from the usual bars and clubs in Ark, at least.

Which is why she isn’t all that surprised when she spots Bellamy Blake at a table by the back.

(She’s not sure when she started thinking of him as _Bellamy_ instead of Professor Blake, for one, or when she started picturing him in places beyond the classroom; places that he would like, even, but it’s hard to stop now that she has.)

He jolts when he sees her, and she’s not sure if it’s the warmth of the alcohol curling in her stomach that makes her brave, really, but she’s moving before she can overthink it, weaving a path through the tables towards him.

She’s almost there when she realizes that he’s moving, too, meeting her halfway.

(It’s an effort not to let her gaze linger on the rolled up sleeves of his Henley, the stubble lining his jaw. He’s always clean shaven for class, tie looped loosely around his neck, so just seeing him like this— unshaven and rumpled and dishevelled— it’s, just, _well._ It’s a lot to handle.)

“Professor,” she greets, her voice catching on the words.

He groans at that, rolling his eyes. Still, it’s impossible to miss the lift of his mouth, the teasing lilt to his words. “Clarke,” he says, with the arch of his brow. “Come here often to appreciate the art?”

She follows the line of his gaze to the piece behind her. It’s one of those joke ones you get at Spencer’s, a close up of a fish’s bulbous eyes.

“Sure,” she says conversationally. “Expanding my horizons, remember?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, making a face. “This one still seems a little maudlin, don’t you think?”

“Only because you’re not looking at it right,” Clarke counters, sidling up to him so she can peer at it with exaggerated contemplation. “See? If you angle your chin just so, it looks like… a ballsack.”

That makes him choke on his breath, a gurgle of a laugh escaping. “Oh, and _that_ equates to happiness?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I’d rather not,” he says dryly, shifting slightly to let a wave of people pass. His arm is warm against the small of her back, protective and steadying, and she has to remind herself not to melt into it like she wants to. “Besides, I have trouble seeing it like you do. Optimist, remember?”

She scoffs, reaching up to press her thumb against his jaw. He doesn’t resist, just tilts his head under the pressure of it. His skin is furnace hot, stubble scraping at her fingers, and she tries not to think about how it’d feel elsewhere. “Look again.”

“Huh. Looks like an overturned turnip, now.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Optimist,” he corrects, though she’s pretty sure she’s not imagining his shiver when she slides her thumb away. “I did, however, finish the book you recommended.”

She perks up at the thought. “Did you like it?”  

He huffs out a vague noise, looking disgruntled. There’s that smile, though, the one she’s come to recognize whenever he tries to hide it. “Against my better judgment.”

“So you _do_ like it,” she beams, poking at his elbow. “See? I knew I could convert you.”

“It’s one book, Clarke.”

“C’mon, Bellamy. You can’t say something like that and not tell me what you thought of it.”

He doesn’t so much as freeze than he does stiffen. She can feel herself do the same, a hot wave of embarrassment flooding her. Any second now, he’s going to shrink away, to go all formal, and—

“It’s fine,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. “I think, I mean, since we’re not in class…” he trails off, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous gesture, but when he finally looks up at her, it’s anything but. It’s steady and unwavering and _sure,_ the sight of it sending a bolt of heat through her.

She releases a ragged breath, hopes he doesn’t hear it through the din. Then, lifting her chin, she meets his stare with the same steadiness that he gives her.

(It’s an acknowledgment, a promise, and a challenge, all at once. One that she doesn't quite understand, herself.)

“So, Bellamy,” she says, watching as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, his form curving in towards her— reflecting the relief that she feels sinking in her bones, a weight lifting off her chest. “What did you think of the book?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be THAT asshole, but this chapter is really the calm before the storm and THAT'S ALL IM GONNA SAY ABOUT THAT.


	3. III.

Clarke’s only half paying attention to her essay when someone plops down beside her, pulling her earbud free.

“Busy,” she grunts out, barely bothering to glance over at the figure next to her. There’s only one person who would try this with her, anyway, and Wells tended to go away once acknowledged.

“Sure,” he chirps, drumming his fingers in a restless beat against the table. “Just wanted to ask if you needed all this space, because we sure could.”

It dawns on her, then, that he’s not alone. Lifting her head, she glimpses three other people, hovering awkwardly by the end of the booth. They seem vaguely familiar, somehow, like she’s seen them along campus a few times or maybe shared a few classes.

She manages a tight smile, scoots a little over to the left. “Sure.”

“Thanks,” Wells grins, sliding in next to her. “I know, coming to Lucio’s during lunch hour to finish up a project isn’t the smartest idea, but we’re starving.”

“You sure this isn’t just a ploy to get me to buy you a tuna melt?”

“ _I'm_ buying you a tuna melt,” Wells points out, lifting his hand to wave the nearest waiter over. “Coffee alone won’t give you the energy to kick this paper’s ass, Clarke. Especially not for Blake’s course.”

That seems to pique the interest of Wells’s otherwise silent groupmates. One of them leans forward, meets her eyes. “So that’s where I know you from.”

“Apparently,” she shrugs, managing a surreptitious onceover. He’s tall, lanky, with multiple piercings and tattoos barely hidden under his sleeve. Raven would be all over him in a heartbeat. “I’m Clarke.”

“Zeke,” he nods, leaning back in his seat. “I thought what you said about the Harappan was pretty cool, by the way. You mind if I bring it up in my paper?”

It’s hard not to bask a little in his compliment. “Nah,” she says, and this time, she doesn’t even have to force a smile. “Did you listen to Bell— Professor Blake’s follow-up analysis, though? It was badass.”

“And the fact that he liked it enough to write a whole response paper to it? Yeah. The guy’s pretty cool.”

There’s a snort at that, sudden enough that she only realizes, belatedly, that it’s coming from the guy next to Zeke. “Of course he liked it,” he sneers, his gaze roving over her in a way that makes her skin crawl. “Considering how you stay behind after every class to _simper_ at him. Or are you just sleeping with the guy already?”

In that instant, the only emotion she registers is pure, _blinding_ fury. She’s not one for violence; not one to lash out without considering the context, the circumstances, the consequences, but it’s hard to remember all of it when he’s looking at her like that, smug and lewd and—

Well’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and piercing. “McCreary.”

“What?” he says, extending his hands out helplessly. “It’s true. Ask her. Ask _Zeke._ I’ve seen them talking and laughing after class, having coffee together. He calls on her constantly, assigns her the best topics. But hey,” he pauses, clasping his hands together. The look on his face is disgustingly, _disgustingly_ superior, as if her lack of an response proves him right. “No judgment. Shit if I could, I would do the same thing.”

“Get out. Get the _fuck_ out of here, you asshole.”

“No,” she gets to her feet, schools her face into one of absolute composure. “I’ll go. You guys have work to do, anyway.”

“Jesus, Clarke, you shouldn’t have to.”

“I want to,” she interrupts, holding a hand out warningly. Wells is already half out of his chair, anger palpable in his form, but Zeke won’t meet her eyes, and the thought of it stings a surprising amount.

“I’d be careful if I were you, though, McCreary,” she bites out, shooting him a saccharine sweet smile. “Spreading unsubstantiated rumors isn’t going to do anything about your failing grade. Or your intelligence, clearly.”

“You fucking _bitch—_ ”

She’s out of the booth and moving before he can say anything else, flipping him off in one petty, immature moment of spite, keeping it raised until she’s out of the door entirely.

  


+

The thing is, Clarke’s more than aware that there’s no truth in McCreary’s words.

Sure, it can be argued that she and Bellamy are friends _,_ somewhat, but that’s all there is to it. He’s never flirted with her, or tried anything, or even looked at her in any other way that suggests anything beyond a professional, uh, _platonic_ working relationship.

Still, she can’t stop thinking about it.

She’s stupidly self-conscious the next time she heads to class, slinking in right before the lecture starts. He’s already up front, powering up the old, finicky projector he still insists on using, waving one hand absently in the air as he explains the idea behind cataclysm.

There are splatters of ink on his fingertips, his eyes bright and crinkling at the corners, and he has to stop every few seconds to push his glasses up his nose; the motion impatient.

It shouldn’t be distracting, shouldn’t be _attractive,_ but she can’t quite look away, somehow— her gaze tracking his every movement, every slight expression. He’s moved on to talking about the Vinca, now, his voice steady and even and reverberating through the room, and she can’t quite repress her responding shiver at it, rubbing her thighs together almost absently.

So of course _that’s_ when he glances up, meeting her eyes.

Clarke flushes bright red instantly, dropping her chin so quickly that she can practically feel her muscles screaming in protest. Fuck.

Did he see that? Did he notice?

She counts backwards from fifty before she can bring herself to look up once more.

He’s nodding intently at what someone in the front row is saying, his attention completely on them, and she tries not to think about how strangely disappointed she feels by it. Tamping down the panic and unease swirling in her chest, she forces herself to tune back in, straightening in her seat.

“Great,” Bellamy says, nodding. “Now that we’ve heard one side of that argument, what do the rest of you think? Any rebuttals? Thoughts?”

She’s not sure if she’s imagining the way his gaze flits over to her at that; the cock of his chin expectant. Waiting. Unconsciously, she licks at her lips, her teeth already forming the words behind her argument.

She wants to say that Murphy’s line of thought is shortsighted, and illogical. She wants to talk about the Vinca, and how she likes his comparison of their culture to the flower of the same name. She wants to tell him what she thinks, how she _feels_ — because it’s _Bellamy_ , and he understands her in a way she can’t seem to explain.

But a single thought drowns it all out, louder than most: _McCreary’s right._

Not about Bellamy giving her more opportunities than most, but about everything else. About her staying after class to talk to him, and feeling a leap in her chest whenever he smiles at her. About her hanging back constantly just to see him, to learn more about him.

All because she has glaringly obvious, distinctly unrequited feelings for her professor.

“Really?” he says, his voice snapping her out of her reverie. “Nothing? You guys don’t have a single word to say about Murphy’s analysis whatsoever?”

Clarke can feel him glance over at her once more; his gaze raking over her pen poised over her notebook, her ramrod straight posture, the way she’s looking back at him, frozen in her seat.

“Anyone?” he presses, frowning.

She turns away, letting her hair fall over her face. Shielding him from view. And, this time, when the hour is up, she’s the first one out of the door.

  


+

It’s not like Clarke makes it a point to avoid him, after that, but she does try to keep herself busier than usual.

She signs up for a gym membership with Raven, finally gets around to returning her library books, even volunteers a few of her pieces for the local gallery’s art show. Granted, she regrets the first one pretty much instantly, but at least she’s _distracted_ — too busy sweating it out on the treadmill or fretting over her portfolio to think about him.

It’s how she forgets about her consultation in the first place.

She’s already fifteen minutes late by the time she remembers, though it only takes another five for her to sprint across campus; bursting through the double doors of his office with all the grace of a sweaty, staggering mess.

He looks up from his book at her entrance, the corners of his mouth twitching infinitesimally. “You’re here.”

“Unfortunately,” she gasps out, flopping down onto the nearest chair. The heat and exhaustion has momentarily eased the awkwardness, somewhat, and she finds it surprisingly easy to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry about being late. It just— slipped my mind.”

“It’s fine,” Bellamy says wryly, marking the page with a deft movement of his thumb. “Besides, if I’m recalling it right, you’re the one with the busy social life.”

“I reached for my phone _one_ time.”

“And you’ll never let me forget it.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Her smile comes unbidden, as is the way she can feel herself leaning forward, closing the distance between them. The thought of it— the _awareness_ of him, once more— is a splash of cold water in her face, sending her reeling back in the same breath.

It doesn’t escape his notice, if the way he’s looking at her is any indication. “Clarke?”

“I’m,” Clarke closes her eyes, blowing out a impatient breath. “It’s nothing,” she gets out, forcing a smile. “So, what did you think of my draft?”

“It’s promising,” he says distractedly, studying her with a kind of intensity that makes her heart clench painfully in her chest. For a fleeting moment, it almost reads like concern. “You made some interesting points, but I think your introduction could use some work.”

“Okay. What would you recommend?”

That seems to break his concentration, at least. “Less facts,” he says, biting at his lip. “And more feeling.”

Her heart doesn’t so much as stop at his words than it does stutter. “That’s— I’m sorry, _what_?”

“You have the whole paper to explain your reasoning and logic behind your conclusion,” Bellamy points out, leaning forward on his elbows. There’s a feverish light in his eyes, now, a kind of brightness and passion to it that sends her pulse racing. “But your introduction? Your introduction should tell me why I should care. Why _you_ care.”

(It’s ridiculous, really. He is, for caring so much, and for being so unnecessarily dramatic about it. A part of her wishes that it wasn’t such a good look on him, but here they are.)

“I guess,” she says, the words falling off her lips before she can think about it, “though it’s probably not a sentiment shared by everyone else.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, clearly, and a petty one at that. She lurches to her feet while he’s still gaping up at her, fumbling for her bag. “That was— never mind,” she says shakily, managing a weak laugh. “Thanks for the advice, Professor. I’ll be sure to use it.”

“Clarke—”

“— second draft is due in a week, right? I’ll have it in by Tuesday—”

He steps in front of her, effectively cutting off her escape path. “Hey,” Bellamy says, his voice gentling by several degrees when he catches a glimpse of her face. It’s reassuring as it is humiliating, strangely enough. “C’mon, Clarke. Don’t you think I deserve to know if people are saying something about my teaching?”

 _That’s what teaching evaluations are for,_ she nearly says, the words dying in her throat at the sight of his face. It’s vulnerable in a way that she didn’t think she’d see again, not since that day in the classroom when he thought he was alone.

(Besides, she doesn’t have to come right out and say it, she’s sure. A part of her already knows that he _knows,_ too; that he has arrived at the conclusion she’s drawn for him.)

“Be honest,” she says, through the lump rising in her throat, “if we’re not— if I didn’t bring it up with you, would you even have noticed me, in class? Would you really be calling on me all the time, and giving me chances to participate as much as I do?”

He blinks, the muscle by his jaw giving a discernible _pop_ ; his entire frame tensing before her.

The motion is answer enough as it is. “Right,” Clarke says, nodding mechanically. “That’s— I guess that’s all I was trying to say. I’m going to go now, and we can just forget this ever happened, okay?”

She has to duck past him to get to the door, the warmth of him radiating against the bare skin of her arm, through the thin material of her sundress. The look on his face is unreadable, still, but she thinks he might close his eyes when she pushes the door open.

“Wait,” he says, and then he’s catching at her wrist, his fingers gentle and all-encompassing. She sucks in a breath at his touch, at the way it sets her skin ablaze with just the barest of contact.

“I would have,” Bellamy says quietly, his voice hoarse with something she can’t pinpoint. “I would have, okay? Because you’re fiercely intelligent, and eloquent, and _opinionated,_ and I just— I like hearing what you have to say. I like knowing what you think, because,” he breaks off, his throat bobbing as he brings himself to speak once more, “I think you’re amazing, Clarke Griffin. I think you’re fucking amazing, and I’m telling you this. I’m telling you this against all better judgment.”

It’s about the last thing she’s expecting him to say, really; the ensuing silence brimming with a kind of tension that makes it hard to breathe. She can’t hear anything beyond the racing of her pulse, the echo of his words.

(She wants to kiss him so hard that their teeth clack. She wants to run her fingers through his mess of curls, and bite the indent along his chin. She wants to throw a book at him for making her _feel_ this way in the first place.)

Instead, she settles for turning on her heel, looking him full in the face. Raising her gaze to his, blue to brown. Brown to blue. “Hey,” she says, and she doesn’t know what she’s planning to say until the words come tumbling off her tongue; clumsy and unformed and wanting, “what do you think about coming for an art show?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wish the capital d for drama ended there, but alas


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the....shit hits the fan

The panic only sets in an hour before the viewing.

“I changed my mind,” she calls out, wincing when the movement brings the curling iron a little too close to her cheek. Carefully, she eases it away, letting the lock of hair fall. “You know, I think it’ll just be better for my overall health if I didn’t show up.”

It takes a second for her to make out what Raven is saying through the breathy scream of the hairdryer, her voice amplified when the sound eventually cuts out. “— don’t you dare _,_ Griffin.”

“Are you really telling me that there’s something more important than one’s personal _health_?”

“Damn right,” she replies, coming up behind her. They’re in Raven’s room, as per usual, except the entire space is now taken up by vials of makeup, toiletries, and questionable beautifying devices (see: Clarke’s rusty eyelash curler). “Pride, for one. Dignity.”

She makes a non-committal noise in response, rolling her eyes. It’s Raven’s standard response to everything, really, which means she’s not expecting the addition of, “And boning your hot professor, obviously.”

“That’s— _Rae,_ ” she yelps, hissing in pain at the heat lancing through her thumb. Swearing, she drops the curling iron, levelling a glare over at her. “Really? You really thought it was good idea to spring _that_ on me when I have a heating tool in hand?”

Her shrug is deliberately blasé. “It’s not my fault you’re still in active denial.”

She opens her mouth to argue that, and finds that she can’t. The words stick to her throat, trapping themselves between her teeth. “I’m not sleeping with him,” she says weakly, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt. It hits mid-thigh, showing a lot more leg than she’s used to. “Nor am I planning on it, okay?”

“Sure,” Raven says, sounding almost bored as she runs a finger through her mascara-flecked lashes, smudging out her liner. “That’s why you’re wearing your nicest dress _and_ curling your hair.”

There’s not much else she can say to that, nothing she can deny, with everything lying out in the open. Picking up the curling iron once more, she meets Raven’s stare in the mirror, gives one last futile attempt.

“I’m not,” she insists, sliding her hair in place. Twisting her wrist to hold it. “You’ll see.”

“Okay,” she says, and Clarke’s pretty sure she’s not imagining the smugness in her voice when she adds, “make sure to wear a thong, okay?”

“Jesus, _no one_ is getting my underwear off.”

(Still, she changes into one when Raven has her back turned, slinging the black fabric up her legs before she can talk herself out of it.)

  


+

A surprisingly big crowd has gathered by the time she arrives, though she has no doubt in her mind that none of them are for her. Inviting her family is out of the question, for one, and Raven and Wells are about the extent of her friendships in Ark.

And Bellamy.

Hopefully. Maybe.

Wetting her lips, she reaches for another glass of champagne, downing it in one go. She doesn’t recognize any of the people milling about, and it’s not like any of them are taking notice of her either. Or her art. It’s not entirely unexpected, but it stings, all the same.

She’s on her third glass when Wells approaches, looking distinctly apologetic.

“Hey,” he says, reaching over to grasp her shoulder companionably. “Listen, I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to take off. I have to be at Dad’s luncheon early tomorrow, and I still have my economics paper to work on, and—”

“That’s okay,” Clarke interjects, pasting on the brightest smile she can muster under the circumstances. “It’s the charity luncheon, right? The one you’re bringing Rae for?”

“Yeah. Her favorite astrophysicist is going to be there, apparently.”

“Then you guys should go,” she insists, clamping her hand over his to squeeze at his fingers. “Seriously. Besides,” she manages a smirk, shoving at his shoulder lightly, “we all know you need at _least_ eight hours of sleep to look presentable, Jaha _._ ”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, though there’s no doubt that it’s good-natured. Still, there’s a hint of hesitation in his face when he draws away, his eyes unsure. “See you tomorrow?”

She makes a face. “Do we have to?”

“Oof. You really went right for the jugular, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be me otherwise,” she mutters, lifting her hand to wave as he goes. She waits until he disappears from view before letting her arm— and her smile— drop.

Well. There’s that.

Ignoring the discomfort churning in her gut, she grabs another flute off a passing waiter’s tray, chugging it. That earns her a dirty look or two, but she ignores it in favor of another glass. And another.

Things start to go fuzzy after her seventh glass, so at first, she thinks she’s imagining him. He’s standing right by her rendition of _The School of Athens_ , hands in his pockets and tie askew, and she’s moving towards him before she realizes she’s doing it, her heart in her throat.

Then he turns, his gaze landing on her, and the realization that he’s actually _here_ slams into her full-force.

“Hey,” Bellamy grins, tugging at his tie and loosening it further. He’s in his usual attire of a button down shirt and tight slacks, but with a suit jacket over, and she can’t help but appreciate the way it stretches over his broad shoulders. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Me?” she retorts, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep her stupid, _stupid_ smile from showing. Carefully, she raises her glass once more, pretending to take a slow sip so she can re-gather her thoughts. “I’m the art appreciator, remember? This is my stomping ground.”

He grimaces, the expression exaggerated. “Mm, well, you think paintings by dead white men are the pinnacle of the art scene. How am I supposed to trust your judgment?”

“That’s ironic, coming from the guy who reads books written by dead white men.”

“Only on alternate Tuesdays,” he says dryly, shaking his head. He sobers just as quickly, though, his expression going thoughtful as he takes everything in— from the paintings on the walls to the slowly dispersing crowd to her to her lipstick stained flute. “I have to say, though: this is a pretty great turnout. Congratulations, Clarke. You must be proud.”

There’s something about the sincerity in his words, the softness of his eyes that cracks her wide open. “Not really,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even. Somehow, she manages a shrug, clumsy and loose limbed from the alcohol. “I’m pretty sure no one has been looking at my stuff.”

“I hardly think that’s true.”

“Trust me, it is.” Her laugh sounds false to her own ears, and the pressure building behind her eyelids feels suddenly, _incredibly_ unbearable. “And I guess it’s not a big deal, or anything, but I just thought— I hoped—”

He stops her with a touch to her wrist, the contact sending a low hum of electricity racing through her instantly.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” Bellamy tells her, a rueful smile playing at his lips. “It was crowded in the room, and I was trying to look for you, but I saw it, and I stopped.” He doesn’t look away from her once, the intensity and sureness of it stealing her breath. “I didn’t know it was yours,” he says simply, and she thinks she likes the way he says it— matter of fact; ironclad and true and beyond questioning.

It’s all she can do to keep from throwing herself in her arms, really; all she can do to keep from closing the distance between them and kissing him silly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he mimics, the tension draining away when she smacks at his shoulder for it, his laugh bright and ringing through the space, filling her with light. “Alright, alright. Tell me what I’m looking at, Picasso.”

  


+

Clarke’s drunk _._

The thought occurs to her when she misses a step at the landing, nearly bringing Bellamy down with her, his arm spanning her waist as he hauls her up. It occurs to her when the paintings in the room begin to morph into a kaleidoscope of colors, unfathomable and jarring.

It occurs to her when she realizes how little of a _damn_ she gives about the consequences that come with kissing Bellamy Blake.

(All things considered, it’s definitely not the best state of mind to be in.)

“You know what I think we should do?” she says, looping her fingers through the straps of her sky-high, stupidly impractical heels. It’s getting hard to see straight through the haze of alcohol descending over her, let alone walk, so forgoing them seems to be the most practical course of action there is. She lowers her voice conspiratorially, leans in, “steal that bottle of champagne, and make a run for it.”

The look he shoots her is disapproving, but it doesn’t hold for long, a smile stretching over his face as he takes her in. “Sure,” Bellamy nods, mock-solemn. “It’s not like you’re experiencing balancing issues. _And_ coordination ones. Or basically all of the above.”

“I mean, I am the picture of health.”

“Uh, a picture of health, maybe. The one for poor life choices and reckless drinking.”

“ _You’re_ a poor life choice of reckless drinking.”

She can feel the laugh rumbling through his form, travelling down the length of her arm. It makes her want to press closer, to bury her face in his neck and breathe him in.

“Okay, now you’re just being hurtful,” he declares, pressing a hand to his chest. It’s clear to see that he’s not entirely sober, too— his smile easy, his laughter bright— and it’s an effort not to show how much she likes it, really. “I’ve been nothing but a good influence.”

A laugh bubbles up before she can help herself. “Oh, so you think making snap judgments and using a projector in this century is a good influence?”

He actually looks a little offended by that, which shouldn’t be all that funny, but it is, somehow. “I’m— fine, never mind about the projector,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s this about snap judgments?”

“You know,” she frowns. “The part where you assumed I wasn’t taking this course seriously from _one_ interaction.”

“That’s just,” he stops, rucking a hand through his hair. The conflict is clear on his face, but he continues anyway. “You’re right,” Bellamy says, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I have no excuse. I looked at you, and all I saw was your expensive watch and how your phone was the latest model, and I,” he breaks off, making a vague noise. “I don’t know. I thought you were a stuck up, trust fund—”

“Brat?”

“Princess,” he finishes, smiling crookedly. His fingers are feather-light against her hair when he reaches over, grazing at the pins holding them up. “You know, complete with a crown and all.”

She closes her eyes instinctively at the touch, her breath hitching in her chest. “And then I had to ruin it by telling you exactly what I thought about that.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking on the word, and when she opens her eyes, he’s looking right at her. For a heart-stopping, impossible moment, she swears she sees his gaze drop to her lips. “Something like that.”

She manages a shaky laugh, the room swaying before her. “Something like that,” Clarke agrees, forcing a deep breath through her lungs. Her skin feels hot to touch, her senses overstimulated, and she says it before she can chicken out, the words coming hard and fast, “You know what else I’m gonna ruin?”

He stills, his expression unfathomable when she leans over, going up on her toes.

“I’ll give you a headstart, next time,” she murmurs, and she thinks she catches a glimpse of the shock on his face before she’s _off,_ stumbling down the corridor and towards the side-table, her fingers closing around the bottle neck.

She can hear his incredulous laugh even when she breaks into a run, hurtling out of the room and out into the cool, night air, her feet tripping over one another as she descends the steps.

He catches at her elbow before she can go any further, his arms caging her in as she collides into him, laughing.

“Jesus, please stop.” Bellamy groans, but there’s a laughter in his voice, too; low and gravely and sending a bolt of heat between her legs. “You’ll crack your head right open.”

She huffs out a breathless noise, her fingers curling instinctively against the back of his neck. “Worth it, though.”

“What,” he says, amused. His lashes are long and dark, so close that she count them, his breath warm on her cheek. “All this for a bottle of champagne?”

She lifts at her chin, meeting his eyes. Carefully, she inches her hand upwards, delving it into his mess of curls, just like how she’s always wanted to. Just like how she’s always imagined.

He tenses against her, but doesn’t pull away, his grip on her waist bruising.

“No,” she tells him, and she’s moving before she knows it, closing the last few inches of space between them. “For this.”

Then she’s _kissing_ him, deep and thorough and unrestrained, his arms vice-like around her as he presses forward, kissing her back with equal fervor. She can feel the champagne slipping out of her fingers, landing onto the grass as she runs a hand down his back, his shoulders.

She gasps when he backs her up against the wall, letting her head thump back when he finds that spot along her neck that makes her toes curl, a cry escaping. “ _Bellamy._ ”

It’s as if a spell has been broken, at that, his form freezing before her.

“Fuck,” he rasps out, drawing back, the sudden cold that rushes over her body at his withdrawal rooting her to the spot. “Fuck, fuck, fuck _._ ”

It’s the swearing that snaps her out of her reverie, brings her back to the moment. “No,” she says, one hand reaching over to grab at his sleeve, the other tipping at his chin so he’ll look at her. “It’s not— _I_ kissed you, okay? I initiated it, and I _wanted_ it—”

“You’re _drunk,_ ” Bellamy snaps, wrenching his hand away. His eyes are blazing, now, his voice anguished. “I should have known better. I _should_ know better. You’re my student, and—”

“In college _,_ ” she counters, feeling tears rise to her eyes despite herself, hot and stinging and wet, “where we’re two consenting adults, who actually like each other, and—”

“That still doesn’t make it okay,” he snarls, turning away. She can see the rise and fall of his shoulders, the jagged movement of it; the uneven jolts of his breath. “I need— we should go.” He takes another unsteady breath, closing his eyes. “We should go, okay? I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

She reels back, hastily wiping at her eyes before he can catch them fall. “No.”

“Clarke—”

“I can’t do this right now,” she says, _hating_ the way her voice breaks on the word; disappointment and embarrassment warring in her chest and making it hard to breathe. “Just— go, okay?”

“No,” he shoots back, glaring over at her. “And you’re crazy if you think I’m letting you walk back to your dorm, all alone, at this time of the night—”

“Fine,” she cuts in, forcing herself to turn away, to start walking. “Do whatever the fuck you want, Bellamy.” The laugh that falls off her lips sounds like more of a sob, choked and small and weak. It makes her feel even more pathetic than she already does. “Just don’t say a word about it to me.”

(He keeps his promise the entire time; his footsteps the only sound trailing her all the way home.)


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the actual show? I don't know her

Clarke wakes to the incessant beeping of her roommate’s alarm.

It’s bad enough on normal days, let alone on one when she feels like she’s been hit by a truck. Groaning, she rolls over, burying her face deeper into her pillow. It’s too early for this, anyway, especially after—

The memories come flooding back all at once: of the champagne, and the gallery, and _Bellamy._ Bellamy, and the brush of his fingers against her hair. Bellamy, and his smile when he called her Princess. Bellamy, kissing her back.

Bellamy, pulling away.

Bellamy, telling her that it can never happen again.

It still hurts like a punch to the gut, even after having a whole night to process the whole mess of a situation. Carefully, she eases her eyes open, wincing at the flecks of mascara unsticking themselves at the movement.

Seven in the morning. That gives her two whole hours until she has to see him in class again, unless she decides to skip it entirely. The thought is a small comfort, somewhat, filling her with enough strength to sit up, sliding her feet into her slippers. She’ll take a shower, get a coffee, _then_ decide.

Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. And neither is she, unfortunately.

  


+

She’s feeling marginally better after her shower, her mood further improving after getting her caffeine fix. It’s already past nine by the time she emerges from the line, though, so she settles for sitting by the benches outside his lecture hall instead of going in.

People start streaming out at half past ten; a host of familiar faces and voices that she recognizes in a distant, disjointed sort of way. She catches a few of them shooting her a curious looks, but she ignores them in favor of striding over to the door, easing it open with her foot.

The room’s cleared out, thankfully, except for him.

It’s petty, but she can’t help feeling a little glad at how _wrecked_ he looks. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark shadows under them, matching the stubble lining his jaw. He doesn’t have a tie on, either, and the roll of his sleeves are haphazard.

(It’s… oddly satisfying, somehow)

She lets the door slam shut behind her, the sound catching his attention. “Hi.”

There’s a tense, sticky moment where Bellamy just looks at her, his face unreadable. Then, he breaks, closing his eyes as if the mere sight of her alone is painful. “Hi.”

“Good crowd today, huh?”

That eases the tension slightly, at least, a wry smile peeking through his grim expression. “I guess,” he says, managing a small shrug. Then, with a tilt to his chin, “It was missing one or two of my regulars, though.”

“Ah, so your favorites, I take it?”

“Don’t push it,” Bellamy mutters, shaking his head, and Clarke has to bite at the inside of her cheek to hide a smile at it; at the way she can even find his _irritation_ charming. God, she’s fucked.

“I overslept,” she says by a means of explanation. It’s not entirely true, but it feels like the easiest out when it comes to explaining the conflicting mess of emotions in her chest. “I’m not avoiding you, or anything.”

His lips quirk up at that, a shadow of a actual smile. “Considering you’re here, seeking me out, I’d say it’s obvious.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not,” he says, sobering as he meets her gaze. “I— I wouldn’t blame you, if you did. I was out of line, last night, and stupid, and drunk, and—”

“Stop,” she interjects, her hand pulling free instinctively to reach for him, to hold him. She swallows, forcing it back. “Just tell me something, okay? Just tell me something, and don’t lie about it.”

He eyes her warily, but she hears the conviction in his voice when he says it; a crack in the dark, soft and quiet and true. “Anything.”

She takes a deep breath, starts. “Tell me that last night was just a drunken mistake. That you would— that it would have happened with anybody else. That you can look at me without feeling like your _fucking_ chest is caving in.” She’s shaking, now, her hands trembling so hard by her sides that she has to curl them into fists to hold them steady. “Tell me that you think of me as nothing but your student. Tell me that you don’t have feelings for me,” she trails off, releasing a shuddering breath. “Tell me that, and I’ll walk away. I’ll walk away, and I’ll never bring it up ever again.”

A long, drawn-out beat, the muscle of Bellamy’s jaw clenching and unclenching with each passing moment. He opens his mouth, his lips forming the words. They don’t come, though, his mouth snapping shut with a audible noise.

“You can’t,” she says, trying to tamp down the surge of giddiness rushing through her veins. “You can’t, because you know how you feel. You know you feel something for me.”

He sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “Jesus _,_ Clarke. I’m your _teacher_.”

“In college.”

“I’m too old for you.”

“You’re twenty six _,_ Bellamy. Not decrepit. And five years isn’t much.”

The sound he makes in response is distinctly exasperated. “You should be dating people your _own_ age, Clarke. Someone who isn’t your professor. Someone who can hold your hand in public, and kiss you at your art showings, and—”  

“I want _you_.” It’s meant to be confident, sultry even— but the words come out soft. Yearning.

(She wishes she could explain it, somehow, wishes she could explain the depth of her feelings for him; the way he makes her feel. Like he understands her, just as she understands him. Holding each other on equal footing, spinning on the same axis.)

The effect of it isn’t lost on him, if the way his face crumples is any indication. Still, he composes himself just as quickly, resuming a blank, steely mask. “I think you should go, Ms. Griffin.”

She can practically feel her heart sinking to her toes, the weight of it crushing and absolute.

There’s nothing else she can say to that, really, nothing else she can do to change his mind, so she does, closing the door behind her with a soft _click._

  


+

The smart thing to do, after, would be to avoid him.

It feels impossible to when she has to see him three times a week in class, though; when she has to be _constantly_ reminded of his intelligence, and his passion, and his warmth. She hates that his gaze still cuts to her whenever someone says something funny, as if they’re sharing a private joke. She hates that his smile still sends a surge of warmth through her, dizzying and thrilling. She hates that there’s still a spark of attraction between them, a constant, humming awareness at the back of her head.

She hates how it’s possible to like him so much, even with everything that has happened.

“It’s Clarke, right?”

She startles, snapping back into the present. Class has let out, if the quickly dispersing crowd is any indication, and she’s the only other person in the room except for Bellamy, and—

Finn Collins, apparently.

 _Oh._ “Yeah,” she croaks, tearing her gaze away the ripple of muscles under Bellamy’s shirt. He has his back towards them, facing the board, and she wonders if she’s imagining the sudden tension in his shoulders. “And you’re Finn,” she says, managing a tight smile.

He grins at that, clearly pleased that she’s noticed. As if he hasn’t been sitting just two seats away from her for _weeks,_ chewing on his obnoxiously loud, disgusting bagel concoction. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to,” she says dryly, standing to gather her books. It’s an effort not to peek over at Bellamy when she does; at the flex of his arm as he cleans off the board, the twitch of his jaw. “Did you need something?”

“Not much,” he says, casual in a way that makes her skin prickle in annoyance. “Just your number, preferably.”

She stops short, one of her books sliding out of her grip with a clumsy _thunk._

(It’s ironic, really, that he’s doing this now, with her hair in a sloppy bun and no makeup on and in three day old sweats that has definitely seen better days. In the middle of the day, in her Ancient Civilizations class, no less.

With _Bellamy_ in plain sight.)

“Oh,” Clarke says stupidly, staring. It’s all she can manage, with her mind scrambling for a response, an idea, a hint for what constitutes as the right move. Distantly, a part of her registers that Bellamy has stopped moving, his fingers curled stiffly around the board duster.

“You’re not seeing anyone right now, are you? You’re single?”

There’s a lump in her throat the size of Texas, at this point. “No,” she gets out, forcing herself to focus on the guy before her— on Finn’s earnest brown eyes, his wide smile, his carefully styled hair. The difference between him and Bellamy feels stark, somehow. “And, uh— okay. Sure.”

“Great. And I mean, since I have luck on my side, what do you think about getting dinner together? Tonight?”

She closes her eyes, exhales a shaky laugh. “I’m—”

“As much as I hate to interrupt this scintillating interaction,’” a voice cuts in, clearly irritated. “I’m locking up. You can continue this outside.”

There’s a kind of iciness to it that she didn’t think Bellamy was capable of in the first place, cutting through the space like a knife. She flinches at it, despite herself, her breath catching in her throat.

Finn remains blissfully unfazed by it. “Sure thing, Professor Blake. Sorry about the hold up, but you know how it can get.”

The expression on Bellamy’s face is stony, his eyes unreadable, and for some reason, the sight of it fills her with a kind of anger she can’t explain, surging through her like a livewire. _How dare he_ react like this, with everything that’s happened. _How dare he,_  when he’s the one who told her to date other people, to be with someone else, to _end_ things between them—

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” he says abruptly, shooting Finn a grim smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to get the hell out of my classroom.”

She cuts in before Finn can say anything else, before she can lose her nerve. “Our pleasure, Professor Blake.”

It’s his turn to flinch this time, the hurt in his eyes the last thing she sees before she turns away, marching through the door.


	6. VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some mild attempted man-handling in this chapter on Finn's part, so make sure to avoid this chap (or basically anything from the second + onwards) if it bothers you!

Actively dating Finn Collins takes a lot of getting used to, unsurprisingly.

He’s big on texting, for one, and has the tendency to send multiple texts at one go, all laden with indecipherable emojis and short-form that she swears doesn’t actually exist. He likes to bring her to obnoxiously fancy restaurants to order the cheapest thing off the menu (even at her vehement insistence that diner food is fine) as if it’s some sort of big _fuck-you_ to capitalism, or something. He reminds her _constantly_ that he recycles and that he has his own housing, as if he wants her to give him a gold star for it.

“I keep telling you,” Raven points out, seizing the moment of distraction to snag her muffin. “The guy’s bad news, okay? We dated freshman year, and he practically cheated on me within five minutes, remember?”

“Fuck. _He’s_ Spacewalker?”

“The one and only,” she says brightly, tearing a sizable chunk off said muffin (Clarke’s breakfast muffin, to be exact, but she decides to let it slide). “I dumped him, obviously, but he went around all semester trying to pull this, _it was a mutual decision_ crap.”

She groans. “Seriously? All that extra effort just to save face?”

“What can I say? He likes to come off as the good guy.”

“Right,” Clarke mutters, running her finger along the rim of her half empty coffee cup. It’s Raven’s idea to grab a quick breakfast before class, but somehow, _she’s_ the one with the coffee and muffin while Raven just sips at a iced water. “Makes sense, unfortunately.”

The noise she makes in response is decidedly unsympathetic. “C’mon, Griffin,” she huffs, shaking her head. “I thought you knew better than this. Why are you even dating this guy when he annoys you six ways to Sunday?”

“He doesn’t annoy me,” she says reflexively, but it sounds flat and unconvincing even to her own ears. Biting back a grimace, she continues, “It’s just— new, I guess. All new relationships need some breaking in.”

“Relationships also generally begin with _mutual_ attraction, but okay.”

She scowls, mustering up the best glare she can manage under the (way-too-early) circumstances. “I _am_ attracted to Finn.”

“Sure,” Raven says, reaching forward to pat at her knuckles. “You look at him exactly like how I look at my goldfish, and my mandatory engineering mods, and that one Jane Austen movie everyone keeps telling me to watch.”

“With love and respect?”

“With complete and utter disinterest,” she chirps, reaching over to grab at her coffee cup and  downing it in one fell swoop. “Let’s go, we’re already running late.”

She gapes, reluctantly allowing Raven to pull her out of her seat. “You’re— that’s my coffee.”

“That you were taking too long to drink. Much like how you’re taking too long to end this sham of a relationship with Finn Collins, but I digress.”

(Clarke doesn’t even feel bad about saddling her with the bill, really.)

 

+

It takes several more coffee dates, slightly stilted dinners, and one very unmemorable movie for him to broach the topic once more.

“So,” Finn says, grinning in that deliberate way of his that she just knows is meant to be charming and sheepish, all at once. “Do you want to come up?”

It’s not like she’s not _expecting_ it, but the question still leaves her feeling strangely off-kilter, somehow. “Maybe not today,” Clarke hedges, sliding her hand free from his. It’s already past midnight, and there’s really nothing else she’d prefer to do than get back on campus, take a shower, and pass out on the nearest flat surface. “Raincheck?”

“You said that the last time.”

She takes a deep breath, resisting the overwhelming urge to deck Finn Collins right in his stupid, pouting face. “It’s generally what happens when you have a class at eight in the morning the next day.”

He shrugs. “You can always skip it.”

“Skip it,” she echoes. It’s an effort to bite back the scoff rising in her throat, at this point, but she manages it through sheer force of will. “I’m paying good money for these classes, Finn. I’d rather not waste it.”

“That’s rich, coming from the daughter of Abigail Griffin,” he states, arching a brow over at her. “Isn’t your mom on the board of directors at Ark?”

“That’s—” it takes a second for the words to really sink in, for her to comprehend the implications behind his slip. “Wait, you— you _looked_ me up?”

He has the grace to look a little guilty at that. “Only because your name sounded familiar,” Finn pleads, catching at her wrist before she can pull back. “C’mon, Clarke. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is when you bring it up to guilt me into staying,” she snaps. His hand is still at her wrist, the pressure of it biting into her skin and making her eyes sting. “It’s hateful, and manipulative, and— _let_ go, Finn.”

“No,” he shoots back, shaking his head determinedly. “Not until you believe me. I didn’t ask you out because of who your parents are, okay? I like you. I’ve always liked you.”

This time, it’s impossible to keep her disgust from showing. “Finn, I swear, if you don’t let go of me right this second—”

“I need you to believe me!”

“And _I_ need you to know that you’re _hurting_ me,” she snarls, lurching back against the pressure of his fingers. It does the trick, if anything— his hands falling away as he stares on, wounded.

There’s a beat as Clarke sizes him up; mentally calculating the odds of him doing something stupid and rash and reckless to keep her from leaving. The chances are high, knowing Finn, and she tries not to think about the undercurrent of pure, utter panic racing through her thoughts. It’s hard to feel brave when you’re standing before a person you barely know in the dark, with no one else around for miles.

He seems to come to the same conclusion that she does, his expression turning regretful in an instant. “I’m sorry, Clarke. I didn’t mean—”

“Finn,” she interrupts, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t want to hear it, okay? I’m just going to go.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“Good,” she gets out between gritted teeth, planting one foot behind the other until there’s nothing but distance between them, the ground steadying under her feet. “And Finn? Lose my number.”

 

+

It doesn’t even occur to her that she’s crying until she catches sight of her reflection in the store window.

“Shit,” Clarke mutters, scrubbing at her red-rimmed eyes. Her artfully styled chignon is now a rat’s nest, and her mascara has left thick, clumpy streaks down her cheeks despite the whole waterproof claim. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She’s a _mess_ , and there’s still four blocks left to go before she gets back to campus grounds.

Tamping down the urge to flop down onto the ground and just… _give up,_ she slides her arms over her chest, rubbing some warmth back into them before forging on. The quiet, empty streets from before have given way to the bright, well-lit main square, which is a relief, at the very least.

She’s at the intersection by the bookstore and the food trucks when someone catches her eye.

“I’m fine,” she says reflexively, managing a watery smile. It’s not all that convincing, if the concern reflected in the stranger’s face is any indication. “Seriously. I’m— thanks for checking in, but—”

“Clarke?”

She stops in her tracks, squinting to make out the other figure partially eclipsed in darkness. “Bellamy?”

“Yeah,” he frowns, stepping forward. He has a grocery bag in his arms, the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up to his forearms, and she has to bat away the fleeting annoyance that he can look good, even in sweats _._ “It’s late. What are you still doing out?”

“I could say the same to you, Professor.”

He doesn’t take the bait, his gaze roving from her puffy, swollen face to her hand clutched protectively against her chest. She can pinpoint the exact moment his confusion slides away to understanding; to alarm. “Are you— did he _hurt_ you?”

“ _No_ ,” she insists, shaking her head. Her voice comes out shaky, breaking on the word despite the conviction she’s trying to force. “No,” she repeats, but the tears slip out anyway, unbidden, and the next thing she knows, she’s crying all over again.

“Hey, hey.” His touch is tentative against her shoulder, careful, and she leans into it before he can pull away. “What do you need, Clarke? Do you want me to walk you home, or get you some food, or punch his living lights out—”

A snort escapes before she can help herself. “You’re advocating for violence against a student?”

“Only if the student is Finn Collins.”

“That’s a solid argument,” she murmurs, pressing her face into the curve of his shoulder. He smells of fabric softener, of something rich and warm and just _Bellamy._ “I think— I just need to sit somewhere. Get warm. Calm down.”

“Okay,” he says simply, and it’s quiet again, just the sound of her heaving breaths and his even ones permeating the air.

When he finally speaks, his hesitation is impossible to miss. “I live right here. Just above Lincoln’s.”

It’s about the last thing she’s expecting him to say, really, but she manages to school her expression into one of complete neutrality somehow. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“We can find a coffeehouse, if you’re—”

“No, it’s fine,” she cuts in, nudging at his ribs lightly. “What, you’re afraid I’ll find out you’re a slob?”

Bellamy sighs, but relents anyway. She senses it in the set to his shoulders, the tilt to his mouth. “You already knew that.”

“No, I made a educated guess. No neat freak uses a single, solitary file instead of a ring binder.”

“That’s a solid observation. Have you ever considered detective work?”

“Every day,” she says solemnly as he leads her up the flight of stairs to his apartment. It’s right above Lincoln’s grocery store, small and tucked away and all too easy to miss. “So, how did you get this prime piece of real estate?”

“Sold a kidney,” he deadpans, sliding the key into the lock. It opens with a quiet _click,_ the sound strangely amplified to her own ears. He doesn’t open it right away, just turns to look at her, and she wonders if he’s feeling the same way, too: like the moment is more momentous than they’re painting it not to be.

Bellamy swallows, his throat bobbing. “Tell me this isn’t a terrible idea.”

She meets his gaze, holds it steady. (The same way he did, the first time at the bar, the first time they acknowledged each other as something beyond student and teacher, the first time she realized she actually liked him, as he is.)

“It isn’t,” she tells him quietly, before letting herself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we were not slaughtered at SDCC??? time to Celebrate


	7. VII

Bellamy’s apartment is everything and nothing like she’s imagined.

Everything, because there’s shelves and shelves of books, and a too-small TV, and mugs with actual Julius Caesar quotes on them. Someone’s spelled out _big freckled nerd_ with the magnetic letters on his fridge— probably from when he first moved in, if the dust coalescing on the surface is any indication— that he’s left untouched.

Nothing, because he has a line of planters by the window, and fresh herbs that he picks and uses for his food, and a chess set that has seen better days resting on the kitchen counter.

“So, what?” she laughs, swinging herself up on a bar stool. It’s not what she pictured Bellamy to have either, but it came with the apartment, apparently. “You play a game with yourself while you’re making breakfast? You know, get a little mental stimulation in at nine in the morning?”

He huffs out an exasperated noise. “Cute.”

“Oh, c’mon, Bellamy. There’s nothing wrong with playing yourself. Everyone does it.”

“I will tip this marinara sauce all over you.”

“Only if you volunteer to clean up after.”

The look he shoots her is distinctly unamused. “You really think it’s a good idea to be pulling this when I’m feeding you?” he says, spooning out the thick, creamy concoction and plopping it into the bowl before her. It smells like cheese, and tomato, and everything that’s good in the world. “I’ll have you know, I could poison you like _that._ ”

She bites at the inside of her cheek, tapering a smile. There’s something strangely satisfying about flirting with him like this; about being _obvious_ about whatever this is between them. “You wouldn't. You’ll miss me too much.”

He sighs, drops his head. “Clarke.”

“Bellamy.”

“We’re not doing this,” he says sternly, getting his own bowl. “Sure, in a moment of weakness, I may have threatened to beat up your boyfriend for grabbing you—”

“Honesty,” she interrupts, ticking off her fingers, “and _ex-_ boyfriend. But go on.”

“But nothing’s changed,” he continues, shaking his head. She can feel the fleeting warmth of his knee grazing hers when he sits down, his hair falling into his eyes. “I’m still your teacher. You’re my student. Anything beyond a professional relationship is unthinkable.”

“I’m your student for a semester,” she argues. “For my _last_ semester in college, ever. I’ve practically graduated.”

He snorts out a laugh, one hand going up to massage at his temple. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s how your classmates are going to see it. Or the school board.”

 _It doesn’t matter what they think,_ she tries to say, but the words shrivel on her tongue before she can.

Because it does. She knows it does, especially for Bellamy. Especially when it’s a job that he loves; a job that he’s good at.

She can feel her eyes getting foolishly hot at the thought of it; at the impossibility of it all, and her feelings for him, and just _Bellamy._ “I know,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “I get it. But it’s just— it’s so fucking unfair _,_ that’s all.”

He softens at that, the tense muscle by his jaw releasing with a _pop_ before he looks away. “Yeah,” he says, hoarse. “It is. But you’re young, and in college, and there’ll be other people—”

“Don’t,” Clarke says sharply, rising to her feet. She can feel her stomach twisting at the implication behind his words, turning sour against her tongue. “Don’t. I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t want anyone else, okay? I like _you,_ as a person. And I like talking to you, and being with you, and,” she breaks off helplessly, shrugging. “And if we can’t be anything else, then at least let us be friends. Sounds fair?”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just looks up at her from under his lashes. The look on his face is unreadable, but the intensity behind it is enough to make her skin spark, a shiver racing down her spine.

“I want to say yes,” Bellamy says, soft. “And I would, if looking at someone else kiss you didn’t set off all these thoughts in my head.”

She can feel her breaths coming short, every muscle in her body attuned to his. Tense. Ready to spring. “Like what?”

He meets her gaze. “That they’re not doing it right,” he says lowly.

It takes every shred of her self control not to _jump_ him, right there. The moment lingers, drawing out, and it’s only the reminder of what happened the last time she kissed him that keeps her on her side of the counter; her fingers twitching at her sides.

“Okay,” Clarke manages, after what feels like a whole half a century. Carefully, she stretches out her hand, offering it to him. “We’ll work on it.”

Another agonizingly long minute. Then, he reaches out, his palm enveloping hers in a blaze of heat and electricity. “Deal.”

 

+

Bellamy insists on walking her back to her dorm, despite the fact that it’s three in the morning.

“You know,” she points out, running her hands over her arms. It’s one of those bitterly cold mornings, and she’s wearing a _sun dress,_ of all things. “The friendly thing to do would be to let me stay over.”

He side eyes her. “I really don’t see how letting you in my bed is any indication of a perfectly platonic friendship.”

“No one said anything about beds _._ I meant letting me crash on your couch.”

“My couch is the size of a thumb.”

She shakes her head in mock disapproval, teeth chattering at the sudden shiver that rolls over her. “And you call yourself an adult?”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just arches a brow over at her coolly. She’s pretty sure he has something to say to that; something dry and acerbic and funny, like how he always is, so she’s not expecting it when he reaches back, pulling his hoodie up and over his head fluidly.

“What are you—”

“You’re shaking,” Bellamy says gruffly, thrusting it over at her. She can feel the warmth emanating from it even from where she’s standing, the fabric soft under her fingers when she takes it.

It’s an effort to bite back her smile at the offering; at the way he’s eyeing her— all concern, and worry, and apprehension— as if she might give it back to him and willingly freeze to death out of spite, or something. “You’re not going to unclench until I put this on, are you?”

“The chances of that are pretty low, yeah,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. It does unfair things for his shoulders, and she looks away before he can catch her gawking. “So, please. For my sanity?”

“Well, if you put it that way,” Clarke mutters, slipping it over her head. It even _smells_ like him, which really isn’t doing her any favors considering her current state of mind.

Wiggling one arm through a sleeve, she gives a huff of frustration when she feels the neck hole pull tight over her head, catching against the pins in her hair. “I’m— fuck _._ ”

He bursts into laughter at that, howling harder when she swats at him blindly. “It’s _not_ funny!” she cries out, and it’s almost impossible to see anything through her thick tangle of curls, but she can feel the shake of his shoulders when she collides into him, the warmth of his fingers when he catches at her wrist.

“Stay still,” Bellamy says, his voice breathless with laughter, and then his hands are in her hair, gentle and careful and searching.

She swallows, her eyes fluttering reflexively at his touch. “Please don’t make me come out of this bald.”

“I feel like I should be offended by the implication, so I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“It’s not my fault the concept of bobby pins is lost on your species,” she retorts, just as she feels the hoodie slide over her head fully, static plastering her hair to her face.

She blinks, staring up at him. His eyes are dark under the glow of the street lights, his lips parted. His palm is against her cheek, warm and dry and inviting, and she can feel herself leaning into it involuntarily, seeking more skin.

A beat, his throat bobbing as he pulls away. “There.”

She steps back, her knees wobbling. “There.” Somehow, she manages to will her feet to steady beneath her; moving one foot before the other. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

The smile he shoots her is small. Sad. A kind of accepting of who they are, and what they can be to each other. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

“Yeah,” she manages, sliding her hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Memorizing the texture of it against her skin, the way it makes her feel; warm and cocooned and protected from the reality of tomorrow. “Let’s.”

  


+

Things are strangely normal between them by the time her next class rolls around.

Sure, Finn is still making moony-eyes at her every chance he gets, and McCreary is constantly making snide remarks whenever she speaks up, but there’s something about the _normalcy_ of it that’s a relief, somehow. She collaborates with Monty Green on a assignment, aces a random pop quiz, submits the paper she’s been working on for the past two weeks.  

And starts texting Bellamy on a semi-regular basis, apparently.

He’s the one who emails her first, checking in to make sure that she’s feeling better. That, of course, leads to her preaching about the convenience of texting instead, which leads to him _eventually_ caving and giving her his number.

It’s how she learns that he’s been teaching for about a year now, that he has a baby sister that he practically raised, and that he likes listening to podcasts more than anything.

It’s also how she figures out that he’s easy to read, too, especially when he’s mad.

“I didn’t witness what just happened in your last consultation, but I’m guessing it’s not great,” she prods, dropping into the seat across from his. She’s scheduled to be his last appointment, which he’s aware of, if his now discarded tie is any indication. “Was it Finn?”

“Worse,” he glowers, shuffling through the papers on his desk with increasing ferocity. “McCreary.”

“Oh, so Satan didn’t send his minions down today. He decided to make a visit for himself.”

“It’s a rare occurrence, but it happens.” Bellamy mutters, pinching at the bridge of his nose in a single, exasperated motion. “But never mind that. We’re here to talk about you.”

“Right. Clarke Griffin, 5’5, art major—”

“Peanut butter hater, can’t spell convalesce to save her life.” He finishes, shaking his head. Still, there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips now, his shoulders relaxing with each word. “And clearly trying to distract me from talking about her work.”

She shrugs, tapping out a irregular beat against her chair. “It’s because I don’t have any questions. I have my heart set on what to write about.”

He raises a brow over at her. “Which you’re not going to tell me about, because…?”

It’s a cheap shot, but it’s not like Clarke’s known for taking the high road anyway. “Because you won’t tell me why McCreary pissed you off.”

That startles a laugh out of him, the sound trailing off into a snort at her unblinking stare. “Jesus, Clarke. Anyone ever tell you that you’re like a dog with a bone?”

“I’m told it’s one of my best traits.”

“It’s in the top five,” he replies, without missing a beat. “Seriously, though, it’s nothing,” Bellamy sighs, his fingers sliding over to his temples instead. “He’s just looking for a grade change, that’s all.”

She frowns, straightening in her seat. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I’m a shitty professor, apparently.”

It’s not like she lurches out of her chair at that, but it’s a close thing. “He _said_ that?”

“He insinuated it.” It’s his turn to shrug now, feigning nonchalance. It’s impossible to miss the stiffness in his frame, though, the flicker of hurt in his gaze. “I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s not the first I’ve heard from students who are looking to get better grades without putting in the effort.”

She scoffs, the sound more incredulous than anything. “Well, that’s just lazy _._ And underhanded, and stupid, and—”

“It’s fine, Clarke. I don’t care.”

“You _should,_ because you don’t _deserve_ it,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. The anger that flares in her burns bright; sudden and hot and searing. “Look, even objectively, I can assure you—”

She stops short at the expression on his face— more defeated than anything; tired and drawn and exhausted. It occurs to her, then, that maybe it’s not her anger that he needs, or her indignation on his behalf.

Maybe he just needs to forget, even just for a little while, about the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Abruptly, Clarke rises to her feet, grabbing his coat alongside hers. She thinks he might sputter out some sort of question to that, but she ignores it in behalf of slinging her bag over her shoulder, pushing the chair back in place with her foot.

“Clarke?”

“C’mon,” she says, offering him his jacket. “We’re going out.”

He eyes it reluctantly, the struggle clear on his face. “Technically, consultation is still in session.”

“And technically, I’m telling you that you had a bad day, and that you should come play hooky with me.” She stretches out her fingers, wiggling them slightly. It gets another laugh out of him, brief but filled with a kind of _fondness_ that makes her chest go tight. “C’mon, Bellamy,” she manages, her voice going soft. Coaxing. “What’s one day?”

A beat, his eyes considering as he takes her in; his jacket in her arms, the clench of her knuckles around her bagstrap.

He reaches out, his hands curling around the fabric as he takes it, following her out into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "come play hooky with me" like it's not code for GO ON A DATE WITH ME, but whatever ms griffin


	8. VIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I didn't update last week, so here's a EXTRA long chapter to make up for it.

Clarke only finds out after that he’s never been to Lucio’s.

“No, I’ve been here,” he huffs, reaching past her to grab a sheath of napkins. There’s a smudge of ketchup on his lip, his eyes bright under the glow of the street lights, and it’s an effort not to feel too pleased at how much _better_ he looks. “Just, you know. Not through the window.”

She snorts out a laugh. “That’s because the window system is only for _regulars,”_ she says primly, rapping at the frame with her knuckles until it slides shut. “I’ll have you know that I’ve cultivated a strong, mutually beneficial relationship with Lucio’s.”

“Sure. So, through bribery or coercion?”

It’s practically impossible to muster up any emotion that is remotely indignant when he’s grinning at her like that, but she tries her best anyway. “You really think so little of me?”

“Trust me,” Bellamy says, dipping his hand into the takeout bag in her arms to retrieve a fry. It sends a waft of fried food scented air right into her face; smelling of grease and bacon and comfort. “It’s a compliment.”

She manages a incredulous noise, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from betraying her. “You’re just trying to get it out of me so you don’t have to wait in line.”

“Oh, like I’m capable of _that_ kind of deception. Didn’t you figure out that I hated Collins in like, two lessons?”

“That’s just because you don’t bother hiding it,” she chirps, taking the drinks from him while he fumbles for his keys. It didn’t take all that long to get their food, but they _did_ spend an inordinate amount of time arguing about where to go from his office, hence the late hour. (Convincing him that his apartment was the best choice took up a majority of it, unfortunately.) “Though I’m like eighty percent sure he remains oblivious to it.”

“Ninety,” he amends, easing the door open for her. Nothing’s changed from the last time she’s been here, except for the copy of _A Closed And Common Orbit_ on his counter, as per her recommendation.

She nudges at it when he comes over, sending it skittering over to his side. “Do you like it?”

He looks like he might brush it off, at first— say something glib or funny or play it off entirely, just like how he always does when it comes to things that he holds close to his heart— like the books he loves, and the family he’s fought for, and the job that he enjoys.

Clarke’s expecting it, anticipating it, even, so it’s hard not to react when he says, soft, “I loved it.”

It takes a minute or two for the words to sink in; for her to realize that it’s _actually_ a straight answer. “Well look at that,” she grins, folding her arms across her chest. “Progress.”

That pulls a eye-roll out of him, his expression going grouchy instantaneously. “I’m not saying that it’s a revolutionary piece of work, or anything—”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“And it could definitely use some work when it comes to pacing, and—”

“You _like_ it,” she finishes triumphantly, snagging the fry dangling from his fingers. “You _like_ a book that’s not all tragedy and impossible, inevitable fates and doom and gloom.” She pops it into her mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “Happy endings, am I right? Turns out, they’re pretty great.”

He makes a face at that, but doesn’t argue. “Well, I hope you’re making progress on your end, at the very least.”

She yanks a fry free, whipping it over so it pegs at his cheek. “Yeah, kinda.”

It falls to the ground in a crumpled heap, but he makes no move to pick it up; just stares, his expression contemplative. “Kind of?”

(She can feel the uneven rhythm of her pulse against her ribcage; the sound of her own breaths loud and jarring in the sudden quiet. It feels, suddenly, as if they’re talking about something else entirely, about something bigger beyond books and art and endings.)

“Yeah,” she tells him, throwing another fry over. This time, he catches it in his mouth, making her whoop, and then he’s _laughing_ , and she’s winding up for another throw, and it occurs to her, fleetingly, that this, right here: this moment would make a good painting. “I really am.”  


+

“No way.”

She’s not sure how Bellamy manages to convey disappointment and _puppy-eyes_ all in a single expression, but here they are. “Oh c’mon,” he says, elbowing her in the ribs, “what happened to liking it?”

“I liked it four episodes ago!”

“It gets better with age,” he mutters, swatting her hand away with a scowl when she makes a swipe for the remote. “ _Hey._ You get to pick the food, and I get to pick the entertainment, remember?”

“That was before I realized you were going to make us watch back to back episodes of Drunk History,” Clarke grumbles, hitching her knees up to her chest. “Seriously, play one more episode and I might just pitch myself off a window ledge.”

(It’s a lie and she knows it, really. She’s soft and warm and comfortable, with his afghan draped over her shoulders and his arm pressing up against hers with every movement; a solid, comfortable weight.)

He sighs, but doesn’t make a move to change the channel. “You know I suggested scrabble first, right?”

“We’re saving the good stuff for later,” she counters, letting her head fall back with a solid thump against the cushions. “C’mon, Bellamy,” she says, reaching over to bump her ankle against his, “What would you do if the rest of your friends were over?”

He shrugs, resting his cheek against the scratchy fabric of the sofa when he turns to look at her. “I don’t know. Play video games? Miller sets it up, most of the time.” Another shrug, his hand coming up to rest against the back of his neck, the motion strangely self conscious. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t have a lot of practice having people over, okay? I didn’t get much opportunities, as a kid.”

She doesn’t mean to, but she finds her gaze dropping over to his lips anyway; over to the sickle moon scar peeking from it, the curve of it stark in the half light. “Because of your sister?”

He blinks, surprise betraying his features before he schools his expression into one of neutrality. “You remember that?”

“Yeah, well,” she closes her eyes, relaxing further into the sofa; into his presence, “it’s pretty hard to forget when someone mentions that they pretty much single handedly raised their sibling.” 

That pulls a rueful laugh out him. “I didn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, I was around a lot because my mom wasn’t, but it wasn’t— you know.” He stops, clearing his throat. “I had a lot of help.”

She opens her eyes, lifting a brow coolly. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re terrible with compliments?”

“Like you’re any better,” he huffs, but it’s impossible to miss the way he avoids her gaze at that, his ears going pink. “But it’s just— yeah. I never really had time for myself, so. It takes some getting used to, you know? Having all this free time to do whatever the hell I want, now that she’s,” Bellamy breaks off, frowning. “Sorry, I’m rambling. You want to pick what to watch next?”

Clarke’s never seen him like this before; a little flustered and unsure and _embarrassed,_ even. It makes her ache, somehow, like poking at the fresh edges of a bruise that she didn’t know she had in the first place.

(It’s sympathy, and a unexplainable kind of protectiveness, and understanding, above all else. She wants to tell him that she knows how it feels to have to carry the weight of the world; a hard, unyielding force pressing you down into the dirt. She wants to tell him that it’s something she’s never quite learned how to shake, even with the bridges she’s burned and the people she’s left behind.

She wants to tell him the truth about who she is, and everything she’s done, and it scares her, just a little.)

She settles for bumping her forehead against the jut of his shoulder instead, the motion reassuring. It works, if the way he relaxes is any indication, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of seconds.

“Fine,” she tells him, sweeping the remote off his lap. “One more episode.”

She senses his smile rather than sees it; the warmth of it searing against her skin, making her go hot all over. “Then scrabble.”

“Then scrabble,” she agrees, before hitting play once more.  


+

(They end up watching another three more episodes, the audio a low, soothing background to his stories about Octavia, and Miller, and his mom; of his childhood and college days and everything else in between.

She tells him about her dad, too, and the accident, and Wells— each coming quicker than the last, and just like that, it’s the easiest thing in the world.)

 

+

There’s no way they can play a decent game of scrabble on the couch, so she’s the one who suggests moving to the floor.

Which, ordinarily, would be _fine,_ if it didn’t mean sharing the small inch of space by the coffee table.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Clarke scoffs, flicking at his outstretched hand with her pencil. “Really? We’re doing this again?”

He cocks an eyebrow over at her. Then, with the impatient jerk of his chin, “Considering how you still think that qualifies for a double word score? Definitely.”

It’s getting increasingly difficult to rein in her smile when it comes to him. She hates it. (She loves it.) “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

Bellamy gives a strangled sound of protest, his glare searing against the space between her brows. She bites at her lip, deliberately keeping her head bent over the napkin she’s calculating their scores on. Honestly, his reaction is a lot more funny than it is irritating, but she’d rather stick splints under her nails than admit that she finds it charming.

(Everything he does is charming, at this point. Clarke will admit that it’s getting to be a bit of a problem.)

“Hey, I’m just mad because you _cheated_ ,” he says hotly, his gaze following the path of her pencil. “That triple letter score doesn’t count either, because you used British spelling, and—” he stops short, gaping. “Did you seriously still add that to your score?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you remember clarifying which dictionary we’re using in the first place?”

“It’s a given!”

“I’m sure that’s what the Trojans thought when a life-sized wooden horse turned up on their doorstep, too.”

He leans over, angling to get a closer look; the motion bringing him just that much closer. Like this, she can spot the long, dark sweep of his lashes, his forearm a warm weight over her feet. He’s all heat, and _muscle_ , and—

She wiggles at her toes, kicking out. “Don’t hover _._ ”

The actual, undisguised shock on his face is what breaks her, in the end, a laugh bursting out of her chest, and he’s muttering something less than complimentary under his breath, and scowling _,_ and—

“Quit it,” he grumbles, catching at her ankle before she can make contact. “Look, as your friend _,_ I’m telling you that no one likes a cheater, okay?”

The sudden scrape of his calluses against her skin sends a shiver rushing up her spine, immobilizing her. His hands are stupidly, comically large; fingers nearly wrapping twice around her ankle.

(It shouldn’t be attractive, or _hot,_ even, but she finds herself resisting the urge to rub her thighs together, the gathering pressure unbearable.)

“And as your friend,” she croaks out, meeting his eyes. “I’m telling you that no one likes a sore loser.”

Bellamy’s never been one to back down, so it’s not like she’s surprised when he tightens his grip on her slightly, his thumb pressing down onto bone. The glint in his eye is new, though, as is the way his gaze flits over to her mouth. “Fair. But as your friend, I’m telling you that you shouldn’t get too invested in your win.”

She opens her mouth to gloat, just as he _tugs,_ and it only occurs to her, in that split second, what he’s been planning all this while.

The board flips, the tiles scattering _,_ the momentum sending her crashing into him. He catches at her before she can hit the ground, though, the force of it pinning him on his back.

And her on top of him.

For a breathless, heart-stopping second, she can only stare: at the curve of his mouth and the scar bisecting it; at the bob his throat when he swallows, looking back up at her.

He recovers first, the edge of his mouth ticking upwards into a lazy, unapologetic smirk. “Oops.”

“Oops,” she echoes, blinking. “That’s really all you have to say?”

“I mean, there’s also _you’re crushing me,_ but I thought—”

She shifts, her legs tangling against his, lining them up flush against one another. He sucks in a sharp breath at it, the sound loud in the quiet of the space.

It’s an effort to hold still, to keep looking at him when all she wants to do is close the distance between them and kiss him senseless. “Bellamy.”

He manages a breathless laugh. “Clarke.”

“You’re an ass.”

She thinks he might say something to that, but she’s moving before he can finish, sealing her lips over his.

A beat, his form stock-still under her before he breaks, moaning into her mouth as she deepens it. His hands are everywhere, on her hips, and her hair, tracing a line down her back. She whines when she feels him cup at her ass, pulling her closer just as she sucks his bottom lip into her mouth, his responding growl turning her legs into jelly.

“Shit— _Clarke,_ ” he pulls back, shaking his head. He looks dazed; hair mussed and eyes wild and lips red swollen. From her. From _kissing_ her. “We said we wouldn’t do this. We said we were going to be friends.”

She surges forward before he can pull away entirely, twining her fingers into his hair. “Friends kiss.”

Bellamy groans, letting his head fall back against the floor. “Not like this.”  

“Exactly like this,” she murmurs, kissing at his jaw, the dimple of his chin, the curious scar by his lip that she’s always wondered about. “Exactly, _exactly_ like this.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t,” Clarke says, twisting her fingers into the front of his shirt. She can feel him trembling, just a little, the race of his pulse a unsteady, unpredictable thing. “Don’t, okay? I just— I just want to be happy, even if it’s just for a night. I just want a night where I don’t have to _fight_ every single fucking urge to be with you; a night when we don’t have to _worry_ about who we are and what we mean to each other,” she stops, closing her eyes. “I’m— don’t we deserve that, at least?”

He doesn’t say anything to that, his expression a blank, unreadable mask. His fingers are still on the small of her back; a steady, even pressure. Holding her up, keeping her close.

“This is the most selfish thing I’ve ever done,” Bellamy says, soft, and the relief that crashes through is instantaneous, the tide pulling her under. Pulling her to him.

“Good,” she tells him, just as his hands tighten on her hips, rolling her over and settling her beneath him.

 


	9. IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...rating change 4 good reason kk byez

She wakes to what she’s pretty sure is a pencil lodged under her neck.

And Bellamy’s arm over her waist.

The moment feels downright surreal, somehow, her motions sluggish and clumsy as she shifts to face him, grasping at the front of his shirt to balance herself. There’s a hickey on his neck— courtesy of her getting carried away when he slid his hands up her shirt— but that’s about the extent as to how far they went last night, really. They’re still mostly clothed.

_ Mostly _ , she notes, wincing at the sight of her bra hanging off the coffee table.

“I would get that for you, but that would require you getting off me, first.”

Clarke startles out of her reverie, shaking her head to clear the fog that has descended over it. He still has his eyes closed, but she’s pretty sure there’s a tilt to his mouth that wasn’t there just seconds ago.

“Jesus,” she mutters, smacking his chest. “You scared me, Bellamy Blake.”

“Well, you drool in your sleep,” he says on a yawn, stretching. He’s careful with it, though, one hand on the small of her back to keep from dislodging her. The thought of it sends a surge of fondness for him rushing through her, warm and bright and new. “And broke my back, apparently. Fuck, I’m too old for this.”

She can’t help a snort at that, nuzzling her face deeper into his shirt. “Pretty sure it’s because we spent the night on the floor, and not because you have the bones of a eighty year old.”

“It’s both.”

“If that makes you feel better, sure,” she says, chancing a peek up at him. He’s smiling, still, but there’s no missing the furrow of his brow, the tension to his jaw. She grabs onto his wrist before he can pull away, squeezing. “Hey. Don’t go freaking out on me, now.”

Bellamy laughs, the sound muffled when he leans over to press a kiss to her hair. “I’m trying not to.”

“Don’t,” she murmurs, propping herself up so she can look at him head-on. His hair is a mess, a faint scattering of stubble lining his jaw, clothes impossibly rumpled, and she wonders if it’s possible to  _ like  _ someone so much that you ache with it. “Because I have it all worked out, okay? I have a plan.”

He flicks her nose. “Oh, so you don’t wanna hear mine?”

She makes a face, leaning back against the curve of the sofa leg. “No, because yours is bound to involve something stupid and self-sacrificial, like quitting your job and not being with me and possibly moving to Australia, or something.”

“It was more like, I don’t know, Canada,” he grumbles, tilting his head back. “But whatever.”

She manages a reproving flick to the side of his thigh, forcing back a smile. “Listen, okay? I only have two more months before I graduate. And I know, I  _ know  _ that doesn’t mean shit to the school board, but that’s just how long we have to hold off for until we can together. Officially. In public, whatever. And until then we’ll just… keep doing what we’re doing. Being friends, and hanging out together, and—”

He side eyes her, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Not kissing every time we get within five feet of each other?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she says hastily. “I mean, I guess we could just be… discreet.”

“So, sneaking around.”

“How do you have a knack for making something so  _ hot  _ sound like a chore?”

“Skill,” he says dryly, with the pointed arch of his brow. The teasing goes out of his expression soon enough, though, his eyes serious when he leans over, pressing their foreheads together. It’s surprisingly intimate, more so than when he had his hands all over last night, her breath catching instinctively in her throat. “Okay.”

She swallows, her hand finding his once more. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, releasing a shaky exhale. She tightens her grip on him, wishing it’s enough to reassure him, somehow. “I— it’s time, I think. Time for me to stop denying myself the things— and people— that make me happy.”

The honesty of it makes her heart clench, and she has to take a deep breath to steady herself. “Took you long enough.”

That eases the tension, somewhat, the rest of his response trailing off into a rueful laugh. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He shakes his head, drawing back. “I know what you’re up to, Griffin,” he says, grinning. “And I’m not kissing you with  _ that  _ morning breath.”

“You— I don’t  _ have  _ morning breath!”

His expression is distinctly pitiful. “Did Collins tell you that?”

She nails him right in the face with a pillow, spends the rest of the morning pinning him down so she can breathe hotly over his face, kissing him in between.

 

+

Class with Bellamy is definitely… different, after that.

It’s not so much awkward than it is distracting, really— having to watch him talk about the Mayans, and the Aztecs, and the Inca empire and  _ not _ think about his fingers carding through her hair the night before, his voice low and gravelly in her ear. Or the slow, even slide of his thumb down her waist and the bump of his nose against her temple; an absent gesture of affection.

“You have to stop looking at me in class,” she points out, the next time she’s over. Technically, it’s his turn to pick dinner, but she’s making a pretty convincing case for pizza. Mostly. “Not to be a party pooper here, but someone could notice.”

That seems to get his attention, at least. “What?”

Clarke groans, swinging her leg back blindly until she makes contact. “You,” she manages, with exaggerated slowness. “Not looking at me like  _ that _ in class. It’s distracting, and I’m falling behind.”

She doesn’t even have to turn around to know that he’s smirking. “I don’t look at you in any particular way.”

It’s an effort to restrain her snort, considering how she can practically feel the way his gaze is raking over her; from her too short shorts (deliberate) to the baggy, oversized hoodie (his) that she’s wearing over it.

Carefully, she inches back, making sure to lift her ass  _ slightly  _ so it pops. “Sure, you don’t.”

He grunts back something incomprehensible in response, the couch dipping underneath her at the movement. “Aren’t you supposed to be catching up on your essays for Art History?”

“I am. This is a study break.”

“You said that five minutes ago when you got up to get a Snickers.”

She scowls, pushing her heel back against his thigh. “What are you, stalking me?”

“Only when it’s to get chocolate from my fridge, yeah,” Bellamy says, catching at her ankle. She relaxes instinctively at his touch, sinking further into the too-small couch. “But that’s not the point, and you know it.” He kneads at her calf, sliding his fingers up to the back of her thigh. “You’re tense.”

Then, he presses down, digging his thumbs into the stiff muscle. She can’t quite hold back her gasp at it, the rest of her words leaving her in a rush. “I’m just— stressed out, is all.”

He makes a small noise of acknowledgment. “Is this helping?”

His fingers are searingly hot on her bare skin, and she has to repress a shiver when she feels his hand move under her hoodie instead, finding her hip. “I guess.”

“Really?” he says, conversational.  _ Amused.  _ It’s that, coupled with the purposeful pressure of his hands that sends a surge of wetness rushing through her, slicking her thighs. “This isn’t doing all that much for you?”

She swallows, managing a sharp shake of her head. Agreeing feels like an admittance to something else, somehow, a kind of relenting that comes at the expense of her pride. “Nah.”

His hand is at her stomach, stroking idly at the soft skin by the waistband of her shorts.

“Huh,” Bellamy continues, casual as can be. “It’s okay,” he says, the sofa squeaking in protest beneath them when he shifts, draping himself over her. His breath is hot against her neck, his knees on the outside of hers, and the last coherent thought she has is that he’s propping himself up, still, trying to keep his full weight off her, and that it’s strangely,  _ stupidly  _ considerate thing to do. It’s so characteristic of him that she almost rolls her eyes at it, already considering reaching up to yank him down on top of her, when—

“I can do better,” he murmurs, sliding his hand past her underwear and into her wet heat. 

Clarke whimpers at the graze of his fingers against her clit; teasing and barely there before he’s moving lower, running his thumb over her slit and making her hips jerk.

“ _ Bell _ —”

He presses a sloppy kiss against her jaw, hot and wet and rough. “Shh. I’m trying to work here, princess.”

She opens her mouth to argue with that, just as he thrusts his fingers in, sudden and insistent, pulling a whine out of her. She’s always noticed how big his hands were, but it’s different, like this, overwhelming and all-consuming and—

He nips at her ear, forcing her back into the present. “Is it working?”

It takes her a second to realize what he’s getting at. “You—”

The rest of her response is lost in a moan when he snakes his other hand up her shirt, squeezing at her breast. “Nope,” he says, pressing down on her clit in a single, fluid motion all while toying with her nipple, the two-fold sensation making her hips buck as she cries out, shaking. “You’re still a little tense.”

_ Fuck,  _ she tries to say, but all she manages are shallow, panting breaths instead, digging her nails into the coarse fabric of the sofa. “ _ Bellamy. _ ”

He pulls his fingers out with a wet noise, pushes back in once more. Slow.  _ Goading.  _ “Clarke.”

She pushes her hips back, grinding against his hard-on. He hisses at it, faltering, and there’s a split second of triumph before he’s back at it again, sliding in with three fingers instead.

“There you go,” he murmurs, the rough circles he’s drawing on her clit belying the chaste kiss he drops against the back of her neck. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

It’s impossible to say anything when she’s on the brink like this, the only thing she manages being a low, broken whine. “C’mon, princess,” he whispers, and the last thing she remembers before falling apart is his teeth at her neck, biting down. “Come for me.”

Then she’s coming so hard that she can feel it soaking her underwear, the sofa beneath her, his  _ hands _ . He makes soothing noises in her ear as she comes down, shaking in his arms, her shorts still halfway down her thighs and his hoodie impossibly rucked up.

_ Jesus.  _ She drops her head against the cushions, pressing her face into it. Her limbs feel like jelly, her thoughts an incoherent jumble, Bellamy’s laugh soft and intimate in her ear. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.

“There,” he says, pulling his fingers free with a wet noise and sliding her shorts back in place. “Feel better?” 

His hands are sticky on her skin when he yanks her (his) hoodie back down, her body erupting into shivers once more at the sensation.

Carefully, she lifts at her head, finally meeting his gaze.

He grins, popping his fingers in his mouth unabashedly, sucking the taste of her off his fingers. “Still stressed?”

She groans, managing a haphazard swipe at his thigh as he bursts into laughter, the sound echoing through the apartment and filling her with light.

 

+

Wells is the one who brings it up, first.

“It’s like you dropped off the face of earth,” he huffs, which is about as accusatory as it gets when it comes to him. “I checked in with Raven but she was being unhelpful, as usual.”

She has to bite back a smile at that, sliding her phone under her ear so she can make a grab for her coffee. It’s not like Raven knows, or anything, but she sure as hell has a better grasp of the situation than Wells does, at least. “What did she say?”

“That you joined a cult.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“Fine,” he mutters, sounding put out. “Don’t give me a straight answer, then.”

“There’s nothing _to_ tell,” Clarke says, before he can do something vaguely uncharacteristic, like sulk. To be fair, it has been a solid week or so of studying, dinner, and crashing at Bellamy’s. Not that he seems to mind, in the slightest.

Hastily, she adds, “I’m just busy, okay? It’s my last semester. I’m trying to boost my GPA so I can get my honors.”

“Oh,” he says, and in that split second, she lets herself feel the tiniest, smallest fraction of guilt for lying to her best friend. It’s quickly replaced by a comforting sense of assurance, though; the kind that comes with knowing she’s doing the right thing. For them. For Bellamy. “You’re struggling this semester?”

Carefully, she eases the folders under her arm onto her desk, plopping her coffee cup over it. She’s fifteen minutes early for class, as she always is, and the room is surprisingly deserted despite the fact that it’s Bellamy’s session. “Uh, a little? Kinda?”

“Does it have to do with Blake?”

_ Yeah, just not in the way you’re thinking.  _ Taking a deep breath, she summons up the most chipper voice she can muster. “Nah.”

“Are you sure? Because I know he can be a tough nut to crack.”

“He’s fine,” she says, just as the door bursts open, letting in a draft of cold air that makes her shiver.

Along with McCreary.

He doesn’t say a word, just  _ stares  _ in a way that makes her skin prickle. Clarke should look away, really— demur, or pretend she doesn’t understand what he’s trying to pull, here, but she can’t quite bring herself to.

“Wells,” she gets out, just as he drops in the seat directly next to hers; legs spread and elbows out, taking up as much space as he conceivably can. “Let me call you back.”

“What— Clarke?”

She hangs up before he can say anything else, shoving her phone into the front pocket of her bag. Then, forcing a frosty smile. “Can I help you?”

He doesn’t say anything to that, at least not right away. She can feel the slow, deliberate trail his gaze leaves; the threat in it when he finally meets her eyes.

“You can’t,” McCreary says, perfectly pleasant. “But your boyfriend can.”

Feigning ignorance is surprisingly easy, despite the circumstances. “Who, now?”

“Cut the crap, princess,” he snarls, straightening to his full height. “I  _ know  _ you guys are fucking.”

“That’s a goddamn bold accusation for someone who doesn’t—”

“Oh, trust me,” he says, leaning forward. There’s a maniacal glint in his eye that makes nausea rise in her throat, her palms going sweaty in response. “You both  _ will  _ slip up, eventually. And when you do?” The smile on his face is almost sweet _ ,  _ if she didn’t know for a fact that McCreary’s incapable of it, ever. “I’ll be there. Or maybe I’ll go right to the school board, so I can watch your boyfriend’s career blow up in fucking  _ pieces _ —”

The smart thing to do would be to shut up, to take it, to work on a game plan, after—

“You don’t have the guts to do _shit,_ ” she hisses instead, pushing right back in his space. It surprises him, if the way he reels back is any indication. “You’re all talk, McCreary. All this bullshit just for a grade change, when you could actually work for it—”

The rest of her response is lost in the sudden slam that echoes throughout the room; the flurry of noise flooding in. It feels as if a spell has been broken, somehow, the puncturing of bubble of tension hanging over them.

For a second, she thinks he might stay, just to keep taunting her while he can. But then he’s moving, getting to his feet and casting one last smirk over at her. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Griffin.”

“Fuck you, McCreary,” she spits. It comes out steady. Unwavering. Exactly how she wants it to be, except for the trembling of her hands, hidden under the safety of her desk.


	10. X.

She doesn’t tell him about it.

Or talk to him, for that matter. Not when he texts after class, or when he sends her a snap of himself with the dog filter (accompanied with a _how do fuck do these work_ ), or when he asks her about dinner.

Not when she shows up at his door, uninvited, breathing hard and carting two big bags from Lincoln’s groceries with her.

For a split second, he just stares _,_ all messy curls and glasses slipping off his nose and she can practically feel herself softening at the sight of it; of him.

“Hey,” he says after a beat, squinting confusedly over at her. “Did we…? Because I was gonna call, but I figured I’d give you until tomorrow, or later, and—”

“No, my bad,” she cuts in, and it’s strange how she doesn’t even have to force a smile; how _easy_ it is to sweep her doubts and worries and everything aside when she’s with him. “It’s, uh. My phone died before I could reply, and I thought about calling, but I didn’t memorize your number, and emailing was just weird, so…”

Clarke lets herself trail off, her cheeks going hot. It’s a flimsy excuse and she knows it, but it’s not like she can do anything else about it.

(What was she supposed to say, really? That she likes him too much to give him up, even with the possibility of an unhinged, disgruntled student threatening to ruin everything? That she wants to hold on to every piece, every minute she gets with him, however inconsequential?)

“So, yeah,” she finishes lamely, shrugging. Then, before she can chicken out, “Besides, it’s my turn to make dinner, so. I picked up some stuff.”

He glances down at the bags in her hand, brows rising. “Are those microwave brownies?”

“For dessert.”

“Wow,” Bellamy says, shaking his head. She recognizes the tilt to his mouth, though, the beginning of the smile that she’s come to like too much for her own good. “Clarke Griffin, domestic goddess.”

“One more word and you’re not getting a bite of my famous fish tacos.”

He steps aside, then, a smile playing at his lips, and the overwhelming _relief_ that engulfs her at it makes her knees go weak. “I’d be an idiot to say no to that.”

She makes a face, ducking into the familiar space of his apartment— of lazy afternoons cuddling by his too-small couch, and mornings spent stealing sips from each other mugs (coffee for her, hot chocolate for Bellamy.) “You kind of already are.”

“Don’t need to remind me,” he grumbles, his fingers latching around her waist and pulling her to him. The force of it sends them both of them landing with a abrupt thump on one of the mismatched dining chairs by his table, her half on his lap as he nuzzles at her neck. “You scared me, you know.”

The sudden vulnerability in his voice makes her heart clench, a lump rising in her throat. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I just— it’s stupid, but I thought I did something, and—”

She kisses him before he can finish that sentence, wet and open mouthed and hot, burying her fingers into his hair. There’s a beat when he doesn’t move, just breathes her in, and then he’s reciprocating with equal enthusiasm, his hands clenching and unclenching on her waist, pulling her close.

“I was being an idiot,” she says, in between kisses. He squeezes at her thigh, at that, the touch chiding more than anything, but she can feel herself grow slick in response; remembering his fingers so close, the last time; on her and _in_ her and reaching up to play with her tits. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You—” he chokes when she slides out of his grip, sinking to her knees. “ _Clarke_.”

It’s an effort not to smirk over at him; not to grin at the jerk of his hips when she reaches to pull him free from his boxers. He’s thick and hard and hot in her hands, just like how she imagined, and she thinks she hears him groan when she drops a kiss to the tip. “Quiet, please. I’m trying to work here.”

“You’re fucking killing me,” he mutters, his hands twisting into her hair as she settles into a slow, easy rhythm, giving a thorough suck as she bobs her head up and down. It doesn’t take him long to come like this, spilling down her throat the second she digs her nails into his thighs.

“There,” she says, wiping at her mouth. It’s really, _really_ hard not to feel a little smug right now, witnessing _Bellamy_ — perfectly in control, ever steady Bellamy— breathing hard, his head thrown back and his cheeks flushed, boxers pooling around his ankles. “Apology accepted?”

“In a bit,” he growls, pushing at her shoulder gently until she gets the message and lies back down on the ground, laughing as he pulls at her sweatpants, throwing her legs over his shoulders. “I’m crossing something off my to-do list.”

“Jesus, you nerd _,_ ” she says bitingly, just as he gets his tongue on her, and there’s not much talking after that, really.

 

+

(He makes her come three more times, after— twice with his mouth and once more with his fingers, fucking her like he has a point to prove, almost.

She can’t say she minds.)

 

+

It’s ironic, really, because it’s not like she even goes to Lucio’s for coffee in the mornings anymore. She’s only here because she’s out of that instant coffee sachets Bellamy’s got her hooked on, and Lincoln’s is closed, and she’s thinking of getting them waffles while she’s at it anyway.

And that’s when it happens.

“Hey,” he says, and it takes a minute or two for her to put a name to the face; to plaster her face into one of pleasant recognition. “Clarke? Can we, uh, talk?”

“Sure,” she manages, forcing a wary smile. “It’s Shaw, right? Sorry, I’m bad with names.”

“Zeke,” he corrects, rocking back on the balls of his feet. He’s fidgety, she realises, the kind that almost seems to require to be in constant motion. There’s something uneasy about the tap of his fingers against his thigh, though, the dip of his chin as he leans towards her. “Look, I hate to bring this up, but I’d hate myself more if I didn’t.”

A beat, her thoughts scrambling to reorder themselves, to make sense of what he’s saying. “What?”

He takes a deep breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Are you sleeping with Professor Blake?”

She can practically _feel_ her blood turning into ice, her palms going sweaty. Still, she manages to keep her cool, keeping her expression passive. Disinterested. “Listen, I know McCreary’s your friend, but if he—”

“I’m only asking because he says he has proof,” he cuts in, and it’s the urgency in his tone that gets to her, that makes it finally feel real _,_ somehow. “He was bragging all morning about some photos, and that he’s going to go to the board, and—”

She actually feels physically, viscerally _sick,_ right now, her stomach lurching and the room tilting and God, she can’t fucking breathe. “When is he going to the board?”

“As soon as he can. Which, you know—”

“I have to go,” Clarke interrupts, taking a unsteady step forward. Then another. One more, and she’s right by the door. Her tongue feels thick and clumsy in her mouth, her eyes stinging, and she can’t concentrate on anything beyond the race of her pulse, the thrum of Bellamy’s name against his skin.

She has to tell him, now. She has to warn him.

“Thanks,” she gasps out, and the last thing she sees right before she races out of the door is the grim resolution on his face; as if he already knows how it’s all going to end.

 

+

Her fingers catch on the door knob once, twice _,_ before she finally gets it open.

He’s standing by the kitchen counter, glass of orange juice in hand, feet bare and wearing his favourite oversized Julius Caesar shirt. The one with the hole in the armpit, soft and faded and coming down to her knees.

(He gave her that shirt the second time she slept over, and she remembers him turning away when she had yanked her own tank over her head to change, his ears flushing red. The thought of it makes her _ache_ so much that it’s getting hard to breathe, her lungs flooding with a fierce, _fierce_ love for him. For her mentor, and her friend, and just— Bellamy _._

Her Bellamy. )

“Hey,” he grins, coming up to her. She finds herself leaning into his touch instinctively when he slides a palm up to cup at her cheek, the panic abating slightly at the loose, lax lines of his body.

He’s  _happy._ Relaxed.

And she’s going to ruin it all.

“Did you get your coffee?” he murmurs, dropping a chaste kiss to the space between her brows, the tip of her nose, and finally, her lips. “I was gonna duck down to Lincoln’s to get it for you until I saw your note. I’ll stock up after class today, yeah?”

She means to nod, to say something, anything at all— but what emerges, in the end, is the tail end of a sob, her voice breaking on the words, “Bell.”

He straightens at it, immediately alert. Concerned. “Clarke?”

She closes her eyes, feeling the words fall off her tongue like a stone. A sinking, inevitable weight. “I have something to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the shit has uh, as the kids say it, FINALLY HIT THE FAN


	11. XI.

He’s out of the door the second she brings up the photos.

“Bell,” she breathes, scrambling after him. He’s put on a pair of shoes, but that’s about as far it goes, really. He’s still in his glasses. And sweats _._ There’s a tuft of hair sticking up from the nape of his neck, haphazard and curling wildly into disarray. “Bellamy, _please_.”

That forces him to a stop, if only for a second. “What?”

“What is storming over there going to do?” she demands, yanking on his shirt sleeve until he turns over to look at her; jaw set and expression downright thunderous. “What are you going to do, glower at McCreary until he backs down?”

“No,” he snaps, tugging out of her grip. “I’m going there to set the record straight. It’s not—” he stops, releasing a shaky breath. “You’re going to be fine, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’ll handle it from here.”

“What does that even mean?” she yells, throwing her hands up. He charges ahead in that split second, jerking to a halt when she side-steps before him fluidly, blocking his way. “ _Bellamy._ Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not,” he snarls. The ferocity of his voice must register, somehow, because he flinches at it, his throat bobbing as he regains his composure. “Clarke. Go inside, okay? I’ll handle it. You’re not going to be affected in any way. I’ll take full responsibility, I’ll—”

She holds up a hand to stop him. There must be something in her eyes that betrays the lethal, deadly calm settling over her, because he falls quiet at it instantly. “Full responsibility?”

“I’m—”

“You’re going to take the fall,” she says slowly. Testing the words out on her tongue, pulling them apart to see if it’ll emerge different, somehow. New. Another ending. “And you’re going to quit, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Still, the way he’s looking at everything but her is answer enough.

“No,” she bites out, shaking her head. “And you’re a fucking _idiot_ if you think I’m going to let you do this alone. For fuck’s sake, Bellamy, we’re in this together, okay? I’m just as much responsible as you are.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not the one who’s just weeks away from graduating,” he retorts, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you get that, Clarke? I just— I can’t let you jeopardize that. You’re so close, and—”

“That’s not your choice to make!”

“It isn’t,” he bursts out, and it occurs to her, then, that he’s shaking. “But I can’t— I can’t stand around and see you lose all that you’ve worked for because of me _._ You’re too important for that, okay? You’re— _Clarke._ And I can’t let that happen.”

(She can feel her breath catch, despite herself. For a split second, it almost sounds like he’s saying something else. Something weightier and bigger and more infinite than anything she’s ever felt for anyone else.)

And just like that, she can feel her anger drain out of her; the tension dropping out of her shoulders.

“Okay,” she tells him. “Well, consider this: you won’t be by yourself. Because I won’t let you, okay? If we’re doing this, it’s together. Because,” a watery laugh escapes before she can help herself, her knees swaying as she attempts to hold herself together. “Because.”

He leans in close, pressing their foreheads together. For a split second, all she feels is comfort; a kind of assurance that only his touch can bring. Then, she remembers that they’re out in public, right out in the _open_ —

“Don’t,” he says, when she attempts to pull away. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Clarke.”

The defeat in his voice is what gets her, in the end, hits her like a fucking freight train to the chest. She gives in to it, breathing him in, kissing him with everything that she’s feeling, in that instant. Pain, and rage, and love. Overwhelmingly, overwhelmingly love.

He pulls back, first, his hand a warm weight against her cheek. This time, when she looks at him, there’s nothing in his eyes but acceptance. Grim and understanding and ready, beyond anything. “Together?”

She closes her eyes, turning slightly so she can press a kiss to his palm. One last moment of peace. “Together.”

 

+

They’re crossing the quad to the dean’s office when she spots him.

“Wait,” Clarke says, throwing an arm out. Bellamy stumbles to a stop at it, swearing, and she manages an apologetic look before directing her attention once more to the figure standing by the door.

McCreary.

Except, he doesn’t seem to be going in, but being escorted _out._

“Who’s the guy next to him?” Bellamy asks, frowning.

“Jackson,” she says, squinting over at the figures hovering by the door. Her vision’s not the best, and they’re too far away to hear anything they’re saying, but if the way McCreary’s agitated pacing is any indication, he’s not happy about something. “He’s administrative assistant to Kane.”

(And to her mom, if she’s being technical about it, but she’s not really in the mood to get into the nitty gritty of who her mom is to the Ark)

A beat as Bellamy appears to absorb this. “Right. And you know this, because…?”

“I’m a regular delinquent and made a lot of visits to the dean in my freshman year?”

“At least _try_ to be convincing.”

“I keep telling you, I’m a party girl.” Wetting her lips, she lifts herself from the half-crouch they’ve both unwittingly fallen into. “Okay, he’s gone. Stay here, I’m gonna pump Jackson for information.”

“Wha— Clarke.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” she hisses, darting off before he say anything else.

He’s still by the door when she approaches, thankfully, his eyes glued to his phone. Steeling herself, she marches right up to him, managing a chirpy, “Hey, Jackson!”

He looks up, confusion colouring his features for a second before it settles on recognition. “Oh, hey! Long time no see, Clarke.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” she says, with as much nonchalance she can muster. Her pulse is beating so loud in her ears it feels impossible to hear anything beyond it, but she tries, anyway, raising her voice to compensate. “I was just heading off to class, and I saw— I don’t know. Is everything okay? You seem shaken.”

It’s not _too_ difficult to inject a bit of concern in her voice; a little worry. And just like that, he falls for it: hook, line, and sinker.

“I’m fine,” Jackson says, shaking his head in a way that she thinks is supposed to convey his martyr status. Though, considering that he did deal with McCreary just five minutes ago, she can’t say she begrudges him too much for it. “Just a disgruntled ex-student, that’s all. Kane expelled him an hour back.”

 _Expelled._ She swallows, pressing her nails into the skin of her palm to keep from asking him to repeat that. To make sure she isn’t hearing this wrongly. “Oh, wow. I don’t think that’s happened in a while. On what grounds?”

He leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Answer key distribution, apparently. He’s been hacking into the system and selling off test answers online.” He casts a searching glance around the space, as if checking for witnesses. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but he flatout _denied_ the allegations. Kane has iron-clad proof, though. Told McCreary that he has to clear out by tonight.”

McCreary, _distributing_ answer keys? It’s a stretch, but she could see it happening. If he had someone like Shaw working with him, at least. “Whoa. That’s just— crazy.”

“I know,” he beams, “and get this: McCreary was on the way in to make some sort of crackpot accusation against one of the professors in Arts, too. Made an appointment and everything. Then this happened.”

She should be happy, right now. Ecstatic. But all she feels is the cold, hard weight of dread, curdling in her stomach. Raking its claws down her side. Something’s wrong. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Dramatic, right?” he chuckles, shaking his head. Then, brightening, “Oh, hey! You’re looking for your mom, right?”

And there it is. She closes her eyes, can practically feel the dread shifting into something recognizable. Known. A hand at her throat. “Did she say that?”

“Yup. You just missed her, but she asked me to hand you this, if I get the chance. I was just on the way out to drop it in your mailbox.”

She takes the envelope from him, feeling numb. She doesn’t even have to open it to know what’s inside, to understand what her mother has done.

“Oh, and Clarke? She says you should call her, whenever you can. It’s urgent.”

  


+

It’s a testament to Bellamy’s willpower that he doesn’t badger her about the situation until they’re back at his apartment.

“So, let me get this straight,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “McCreary is _coincidentally_ expelled, on the very same day he went in there to stir up shit about us, and you have _no idea_ how that happened?”

She shrugs, pointedly avoiding his gaze. It’s easy, considering how she’s been pretending to make the same cup of coffee for the past twenty minutes. “Kind of.”

“Clarke.”

 _God._ It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that Bellamy’s just as bad as she is when it comes to letting things go. His stubbornness shows in the clench of his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders. It’s not a side she sees often, not a side she gets to, with how things are between them.

(He’s soft, when he’s with her. Vulnerable. Just as she is with him. She likes that about them, like that it’s easy to convey everything with just a look; that they understand each other to the point where a brush of his fingers over her waist is _hello_ and a hug is _don’t go_ and his hand in hers is _I need you._

She’s never had that with anyone else. It makes her want to protect it as much as she wants to burn in down to the ground.)

“Fine, maybe I do have a vague idea,” she huffs out, whirling around to face him. “But it’s just— I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

He arches a brow over at her. “Oh, I’m sorry, does updating me on the situation that involves the both of us inconvenience you?”

“It’s not,” she breaks off, fighting back the sudden urge to do something stupid, like cry _._ But he’s looking at her, all _confused_ and hurt and there’s something akin to guilt swelling up in her chest, making it hard to breathe. “It’s— my mom, okay?” Clarke gets out, yanking the envelope free from her jacket pocket and dropping it onto the countertop before them. “She did this.”

He blinks, only sparing the envelope a split second before directing his attention back to her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My mom,” she repeats, slumping back against the wall. “She’s Abigail Griffin, okay? The same Abigail Griffin whose on the board of directors at Ark. She must have gotten ahold of the photos before McCreary could bring them in, and pulled some strings. She thinks she’s protecting me.”

A long, drawn-out beat. She can’t bring herself to look at him, to hear the pure disbelief in his voice when he says, “So, you didn’t think— at _any_ point— that your _mom_ being on the school’s board of directors was relevant information I needed to know?”

Right. Fight or flight, then. Clarke lifts at her chin, planting her hands on her hips. “Are you saying that you knowing this would have changed your feelings for me?”

He gives a strangled noise at that. “Jesus, no _._ I’m just annoyed that you kept this from me, that you thought it wouldn’t make—”

“Because it doesn’t!” she yells, throwing her hands up. “Her interfering is— it’s not a good sign, okay? Everything with her is transactional, Bellamy. And the next thing I know, she’ll be fucking up _your_ life, just like she fucked up my—”

She stops herself before she can go any further, her stomach churning. Nausea is crawling up her throat, her knees shaking _,_ and she feels like she’s on the verge of heaving the contents of her stomach all over the carpet.

She can’t let this happen to Bellamy. She knows she can’t.

“You never told me it was your mom who set everything in motion against your dad,” he says, quiet. She closes her eyes, bracing herself on her knees to keep from falling over. He keeps going, a stream of comforting words, and reassurances, and empty, _empty_ promises—

“We have to end it,” she whispers, the words cutting through the noise; the low, comforting cadence of his voice.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares. Everything shows on his face, in that split second: confusion. Love. Anger. Heartbreak.

He starts towards her, shaking his head. “Clarke, c’mon. Don’t do this.”

“I have to,” she says, and she’s moving before she can second guess herself, grabbing her bag. Her coat. She doesn’t even have to take a quick glance around the room to know that there’s too much of her things to take with her in this instant, too much she’s left behind with him to make a clean break. “I won’t,” her breath catches, her voice wobbling when she finally brings herself to say the words, “I can’t let her hurt you, Bell.”

“That’s not going to happen. You can’t just—”

“Don’t follow me,” she manages, seizing onto the door knob, shoving it open. Leaving before he can say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> afhksfjka I'M NOT SORRY FOR HOW I ENDED THIS CHAPTER LADIES


	12. XII.

She skips class for a week straight, after.

It’s probably not the best idea— especially considering how she’s pretty much on her last leg of the semester— but it feels impossible to summon the willpower to get anything done, really. Showering feels like too much of an effort, let alone getting food, so she subsists on granola bars and dry shampoo for a while. It’s not _ideal,_ but it’s going okay.

Until Wells drops by, that is.

“Jesus,” he mutters, managing a look that somehow conveys disapproval and concern all at once. “What happened, Clarke?”

She shrugs, pushing a lank lock of hair out of her face. “The cult fell through.”

“And you’re surprised? I could have told you that three weeks ago.”

“Yeah, well,” she forces out a laugh, pressing her face back into the soft, rumpled edges of her pillow. “I was a lot more optimistic, back then.”

Wells doesn’t say anything to that, but she doesn’t have to lift her head to know that he’s watching her; emanating worry. It’s nice as it is typical, and she has to close her eyes against the onslaught of emotions rising in her throat.

“Clarke,” he says, unbearably tender. “Are you okay?”

She means to brush it off, or laugh, even, if she’s feeling up for it— but the only thing that emerges is a strangled half sob. “No,” she gets out, shaking her head. “I’m not, actually.”

He crosses the room in three strides, at that, nudging at her calf with the toe of his boot. “Scootch.”

She does, making room for him as he slides into the space next to her. It’s almost impossible in her too-small bed, but they manage, as they always do.

“I can’t believe you never got a single your whole college life,” Wells says reprovingly, glancing over at the empty bed just a few feet away. “Where’s your roommate?”

“Skipped town to start a band,” she says, without a trace of irony. “Seriously. I got a note.”

“That’s considerate of her.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Clarke mumbles, picking at a stray thread dangling from her bedspread. It’s starting to smell, like she is, probably, and she feels a split-second of guilt for putting Wells through this before slumping back into her consistent state of not-giving-a-fuck. “But, uh, yeah. It’s just me. It’s been just me.”

“Mm,” he nods, putting his arm around her. “In more ways than one, right? Because you’re going through some secret breakup that you didn’t tell me about?”

“Jesus, am I  _ that  _ predictable?”

“No, Raven ‘fessed up,” he grins, his expression quickly sobering as he takes her in once more. “I wouldn’t have guessed, otherwise. I’ve never seen you so wrecked over a relationship.”

Strangely enough, hearing that stings more than anything else. “Yeah, well,” she manages a shaky laugh, scrubbing at her eyes. They come away wet, embarrassingly enough. “I don’t think I’ve ever liked someone as much as I like— him.”

(She doesn’t even  _ let  _ herself consider the other L word. Though, she knows, deep down, that she’s a lot closer towards that spectrum than she’ll let herself admit.)

Wells makes a comforting noise at that, rubbing soothing circles against her arm. “So what’s the problem?”

“It’s,” she stops short, shaking her head ruefully. “What, you’re not going to demand to know who he is?”

The smile he shoots her is so warm, so _Wells_ that she feels her heart clench at it— at the familiarity of the motion, the pure, utter love in it. That’s the thing about growing up with someone: you know all their pieces; the small, intrinsic parts and the large ones that make up who they are. “That’s not the important part, right?”

“No,” she manages, dropping her head against his shoulder; the weight on her chest lifting, ever so slightly. “It isn’t.”

Then she tells him everything.

 

+

“So, let me get this straight,” Wells says, after what feels like approximately her fifth re-telling of the whole, I-fucked-my-weirdly-hot-professor saga. “Your mom stopped McCreary from releasing those photos, and you broke up with Bellamy in retaliation?” 

“No,” she snaps, huffing. “I broke up with Bellamy because my mom got involved. Jesus, Wells. She put my dad in _jail._ Do you think there’s anything she won’t do to protect her interests?”

“Well, in this case, she thinks she’s protecting yours.”

Just talking about is making her queasy. “Yeah, well, that’s unlikely,” Clarke murmurs, reaching up to rub at her temples. She can feel already feel a headache forming, and that’s without _actually_ having to interact with her mom. “I can’t— you know her, Wells. She’ll do something crazy, like get him fired and sent to Alaska, and I’ll resent her and stop talking to her for another six years, and the cycle is just— it never ends.”

He doesn’t say anything at that, just regards her with that careful, appraisive look of his. “Except it’s been six years.”

“Right. And what’s your point, again?”

“I don’t know. That maybe she’s changed? That maybe after six years of isolation, she knows better? That she _wants_ to be better?” he shrugs. “Hell, if anything, you hold the cards now, Clarke. You got yourself a scholarship to Ark, and she immediately joined the board to foster a connection with you. You signed up for an internship at our local museum, and she damn well tried to buy the place down.”

It’s impossible not to snort at that. “Jesus. That was dramatic, even for her.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Wells says, with the playful nudge of his elbow. “Use that big brain of yours, Griffin. You can regain control here. What is something your mom wants, more than _anything,_ that she’ll be willing to leave Professor Blake— damn it— Bellamy, alone for it?”

It’s… an interesting thought, if anything. She mulls over it, maps it out in her head. Considers all the possible angles, weighs them up.

“I think,” she says, biting at her lip. “I might have something.”

 

+

It takes less than fifteen minutes to find the new townhouse her mom is staying in.

And another five to gather the courage to ring the doorbell.

She’s sweating by the time she hears someone by the door, digging her nails into the skin of her palms to calm herself. It doesn’t help that Wells convinced her to dress up for this, so she’s in _heels_ , of all things— hair curled and dress fluttering to her knees and _actual,_ sizable pearls poking through her ear lobes.

Which is clearly not what her mom’s expecting, if her double take is any indication.

Still, Abby is nothing if not efficient. She composes herself just as quickly, managing a cool smile. “Clarke.”

“Mom.”

“You should have told me you were coming, I would have— I don’t know— gotten Callie to make us some dinner, or tea—”

“It’s okay, I’m not going to be long,” she cuts in, pressing her lips together to keep from saying anything else. “I just need to talk to you about the McCreary situation.”

A beat, her gaze turning hard in an instant. “You mean the Professor Blake situation.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke corrects, before she can lose her nerve. “It’s Bellamy. You might as well get used to it, because he’s going to be around for a while.”

“Clarke—”

“No,” she bites out, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking. There’s an overwhelming, _ overwhelming _ urge to just cut her losses and make a run for it; to do anything to get away from the person she’s built her mom up to be for the past six years, but she can’t.

She won’t.

“Let me finish,” she continues, swallowing hard. “Look, what I have with Bellamy? It’s not— it’s not a fling. Or a crush. Or anything that’s going to go away, anytime soon. I like him, mom. I might even love him, but that’s— never mind. The point is, we’re serious.”

_ Hopefully still,  _ she thinks, and for a second, it’s impossible to breathe. All she can see is the hurt in his eyes when she stormed out, the crack in his voice when he said her name.

She takes another shaky breath, keeps going. “And I can’t have you doing what you did to dad to Bellamy, do you— do you  _ get  _ that? I can’t have you hurting someone else I love because you think you’re protecting me.”

Her face is as unreadable as before, but there’s a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth at the mention of her dad. “I know you think I’m responsible for your father going to jail.”

“Because you are.”

“He—”

“He went to jail because  _ you  _ set him up to take the fall for the embezzlement charges. You got a team to discredit him, to build a case against him, to send him to  _ jail  _ for something he  _ never  _ did, and then he got sick, and—” she breaks off, breathing hard. The pressure behind her eyes is unbearable, as is the lump growing in her throat. “You killed dad,” she croaks, shaking her head. “And, for what? To protect the Griffin legacy? Our reputation?”

It’s impossible to see anything through a film of tears, but she thinks there might be actual pain in Abby’s eyes. If only for a split-second. “I did,” she says, quiet. “I did, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. I don’t— I don’t claim to be proud of it, Clarke. I was just doing what I thought was right.”

She has to close her eyes at it; at the way she can feel herself wavering, despite her earlier resilience, at the way a part of her still  _ wants  _ to believe in her mom. In the good of her.

“Yeah, well,” she steels herself, forcing her hands to steady. “I don’t trust you, mom. And I can’t have us having the same conversation six years down the road, only with Bellamy as collateral. So here’s the deal: leave us— leave  _ him  _ alone— and I won’t release the dossier I have of you setting dad up.”

That, if anything, finally seems to shatter the rest of Abby’s composed exterior. “Are you seriously  _ threatening  _ me—”

“I am,” she manages, barking out a sharp laugh. “Just like how you threatened me, by giving Jackson those photos.”

The incredulous look on her face would be funny, really, if Clarke can find it in her to be anything but nauseous. She steps back, forcing some distance between them.

As there is. As there always was.

(And it may be her imagination, somewhat, but in that moment, Abby feels incredibly small.)

She can feel herself teetering in her heels; feet coming to a standstill before she can go any further. And then, she’s  _ talking _ ; the words spilling off her lips before she can help herself. “Just do this for me, okay? Let me— show me that you can be better. And maybe we can try again.”

It’s possible that she says something in response to that, but she’s walking away before she can make out anything else; her steps steady and head high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note: WE'RE SO CLOSE TO THE END BUT ALSO i added one more chapter in because it was getting too lengthy and i had to split the last part up, you're welcome


	13. XIII.

The adrenaline rush lasts all the way back to her dorm. 

It fades once she mounts the steps to her floor, though, leaving nothing behind but absolute, mind-numbing  _ exhaustion.  _ It’s still light out, but there’s nothing else she’d rather do than get out of her uncomfortable clothes and curl up in a cocoon of her sheets.

Maybe she’ll break out the cookie dough, if she’s feeling fancy. Power up Netflix.

She’s running through her options when she spots him, her fingers faltering on the stupidly impractical straps of her heels.

“Bellamy?”

He has the hood of his jacket up and a  _ cap  _ on, the edges of his hair curling out, and he’d look ridiculous if he didn’t have the miraculous ability to look good in everything, really.

For a second, she can only gape, watching as he draws up in front of her.

“Hey.”

She can feel herself softening at the sound of his voice, despite everything, deep and familiar and comforting _.  _ (It’s the sound of lazy mornings tangled in his sheets, his arm banding her waist. It’s badly played chess and old books and a mumbled  _ princess  _ into her hair.)

Then it hits her that they’re standing in the corridor of her dorm, in  _ public _ , and the feeling evaporates just as quickly.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, leaning in. Up close, it’s impossible not to notice the patches of stubble lining his jaw, the dark shadows under his eyes. She feels a pang of guilt at it, this time, the thought of it threatening to swallow her whole. “You can’t— Bell, you can’t be here. You have to go.”

He’s not getting the urgency of the situation, if the way he shrugs is any indication. “Like anyone is gonna recognize me,” Bellamy mutters, shaking his head. “Look, it’s fine, okay? No one’s here and I just— I need to talk to you.”

“And you picked my dorm to do it? Seriously?”

“I didn’t know where else to find you.”

“This is just— god, you’re  _ ridiculous,  _ you know that?”

That pulls a laugh out of him, hoarse and raspy and rubbing her in all the right places. It’s only been a week without him, but it already feels like seven days too long. “I haven’t exactly been thinking straight, okay?” he huffs, running a palm over his face. “I’m going  _ crazy,  _ not talking to you. I can’t— I know that you’re afraid of what your mom can do, and maybe we’re not on the same page here, but I think we’re worth the risk. I think what we have is something worth fucking  _ fighting  _ for, and—”

She stops him with a hand to his arm. “No,” Clarke says, before she can lose the nerve. “We are. We are on the same page. That’s where I just came from, actually. To tell my mom that we’re dating, and if she tries anything, if she even  _ looks  _ at you the wrong way—”

He kisses her before she can finish, hard and insistent and sending her crashing against her door frame. She can’t help but laugh at his eagerness, sliding her hands up his neck to steady herself.

She can feel his responding laugh at her neck, his breath warm on her cheek. “And you held off for a whole ten minutes to tell me this, because…?”

“Well,  _ someone  _ didn’t let me get a word in,” she retorts, nipping at the dimple by his chin. “Rude.”

“Impatient,” he amends, before sealing his lips over hers once more, soft and impossibly tender. “To be fair,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “You look really pretty today.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she says, incredulous, gesturing down to the dress and the  _ heels,  _ and the stupid, stupid pearls. “ _ This  _ is doing it for you?”

He licks his lips, shrugs. “Kinda.”

“You’re an idiot,” she mumbles, before lacing her fingers through his. Exactly like how she’s thought about, how she’s missed in the days without him. “C’mon. Let’s get inside, and I’ll tell you everything.” 

 

+

“Tell me you haven’t been living like this all week.”

Clarke winces, edging a pyramid’s worth of dirty socks under the bed. “Technically, it only started piling up on the third day.”

He makes a strangled noise at that, planting his hands on his hips. “Jesus, Clarke. And you say I’m the messy one?”

“You have one binder for everything and you use a  _ projector _ ,” she leers, kicking at the back of his exposed calf. “I think it’s fair of me to assume.”

“Sure, sorting papers is easy for you but you can’t make your bed,” Bellamy grumbles, shaking his head. Then the next thing she knows, he’s lifting at her messy pile of sheets, wrangling her duvet cover off in one smooth, fluid motion. “C’mon. Let’s get this changed.”

“I’m— what the hell are you  _ doing _ ?”

He regards her with a coolly arched brow. “You need a play-by-play of me changing your sheets?”

“No,” she scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t  _ know.  _ I just feel weird making you clean up after me.”

“So come help me with it,” he says evenly. Still, there’s nothing mild about the way his gaze sweeps over her when she inches closer, settling on her bare legs. She can feel the heat of it in that split second, the tension in his frame pressing against hers. It makes her go hot all over, a shiver racing down her spine.

“And you can tell me everything while we’re cleaning up,” he continues, _clearly_ oblivious to her valiant attempt at self-control. Or pretending to, at least.

She clears her throat, forcing her thoughts back on track. “Right. Anyway, I talked to my mom.”

It’s easy to tell him everything, after, with the photos and Jackson and the truth about her dad. He doesn’t flinch at any of it, not even when she mentions the ultimatum. (It’s one of the things she loves best about him, really— how he never sees her as  _ just  _ manipulative, or calculating, or cruel. He never denies them, but he doesn’t let them define her, either. She wonders if he knows she thinks the same of him. She hopes he does.)

“So, yeah,” she finishes lamely, fishing another loose sock out of the mess and draping it over the nearest chair. If anything, it’s something to do with her hands. “That’s— all there is to it. I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. She wouldn’t risk anyone finding out about the situation with my dad.”

It’s quiet, for a split-second— then Bellamy’s hand is at her chin, tipping it up. “I don’t care about that,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against bone. “I care about  _ you.  _ Are you holding up okay?”

Clarke blinks. “I mean,  _ yeah, _ ” she manages, shaking her head. “Hey, I was the one issuing threats, remember?”

“Not that you liked doing it,” he says, and it’s the absolute conviction in his voice that gets to her, in the end; his belief in her goodness that she doesn’t see in herself on most days, let alone bad ones.

Surging forward, she envelopes him in a hug, the surprised noise he makes in response echoing in her ears.

He catches on pretty quickly, though, his arms tightening around her. “Hey. You going soft on me, Griffin?”

“Shut up,” she mutters, before going up on her toes so she can kiss him good and proper. It’s slow, at first, careful— but then she’s thrusting her tongue in his mouth, and he’s growling, his hands going to the back of her thighs and lifting her easily.

“Jesus,” she laughs, pulling away. “Should I be impressed with how easy that was for you?”

Bellamy smiles into the hollow of her collarbone, biting it teasingly. “I got a lot of practice cleaning up after you.”

“You volunteered—”

He presses her back against the wall, then, grinding a knee between her legs insistently until all she manages are breathless, desperate  _ ohs,  _ gaining in pitch with each graze of his fingers against her clit, his thumb pressing down—

She comes with a broken cry, pure sensation cresting over her and making it hard to breathe. He doesn’t let up, sliding two fingers in and fucking her with them, the other reaching up to yank the straps of her dress down her shoulders. She manages a moan, twisting her hands into his hair when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, the pressure too much and not enough all at once.

“I need—  _ Bell _ ,” she keens, throwing her head back when she feels his teeth at her neck.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing back in with three fingers and making her shake with it. “That’s it. You can manage one more for me, right babe?”

He never calls her that— there’s  _ Griffin  _ and  _ princess  _ and  _ Clarke  _ but not babe. Never babe. There’s something about the way he says it that makes her clench down on him, the  _ possessiveness _ of it sending a rush of wetness flooding between her legs.

“You like that, don’t you?” she doesn’t need to open her eyes to sense that he’s smirking, and she’d be mad about it if she wasn’t so distracted with the way his fingers are moving in her, really. He twists at his wrist once, twice, and then she’s coming, her legs giving out as they slide down to the ground together in a heap of limbs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sliding his hands out of her soaked underwear. She manages a hoarse laugh, cracking her eyelids open to take him in. Mouth swollen, and mussed curls, and erection straining against his jeans. She grabs at his belt before he can ease down her thighs, unbuckling it.

“I know, I know,” she breathes, biting at his lower lip before he can get any further, her hands working at removing his jeans, his boxers, “You want to eat me out. But I— I need you inside me, okay?” 

The swear he gives is so sacrilegious she can’t help but giggle at it. “You’re actively trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Just a bit,” Clarke shrugs, the tail-end of it rising into a yelp when he lifts her, dropping her onto the bed with a small grunt. “Hey! Some warning next time would be nice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Who was the one complaining about her bad back for a whole  _ week  _ after the last time?”

She scoffs, the rest of her argument forgotten at the sight of him easing his shirt off. She’ll never get tired of it, really— of the freckles speckling his skin and the hard ridges of his stomach and the small, raised scar on the inside of his thigh.

(Absently, she reaches up, scratching her fingers lightly against the trail of hair leading down from his belly button. The urgency of the situation has dissipated, somewhat, and all she feels now is a stupid, overwhelming sense of  _ love _ for the man before her. There’s no denying it, at this point, not anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, she’ll be brave enough to tell him about it, one day. Hopefully soon.)

“Hey,” he says, nosing at her cheek. She can feel his hands at her back, working at the zipper, and she lifts herself slightly to help him with it, sliding her dress off. “Where you’d go?”

She clears her throat, forcing herself back into the moment. “Nowhere far,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, his temple, that impossible, incorrigible scar by his lip. “Condoms are on the nightstand, by the way. If I don’t fall asleep by the time it takes you to—”

He pins her down before she can finish, making her shriek when he sucks a hickey onto her neck, leaving her a boneless mess by the time he slides into her. It’s slow, and lazy, and unhurried, up until he hits  _ that  _ spot and makes her cry out, his hand convulsing around her hip as he drives into her relentlessly. She comes two more times before he does, practically screaming with it, trailing off into wreckled mewls and whines when kisses her.

“So,” Bellamy grins, easing back. “You think we should change the sheets again? Logically, we probably should, but if we’re going to get another round in—”

She smacks him with a pillow, cutting him off; just as his arms come around her, his laughter soft in her ear as he holds her close.

 

+

(In the end, she convinces him to bend her over the desk right before they head out for dinner instead, so they don’t end up changing the sheets.

And one more time on the ground, too, much to Bellamy’s chagrin, but it’s not like he can resist when she tells him she’s not wearing any underwear out.

“You’re going to break my back one day, I swear to God,” he huffs, groaning as she slides off his lap, smearing come all over his jeans. He’ll get her back for that one, but in the meantime, she just smiles, zipping him back up.

“Mm. But what a way to go, right?”

“I hate you.” He mutters, biting at her neck until she squawks, swatting him off before he can give her another mark.)

 

+

The next few weeks are a blur of classes and finals and being with Bellamy, whenever she can.

And her friends, too, now that the cat is out of the bag. Wells gets to meet him first, which pisses Raven off, but she calms down soon enough once she bribes her with coffees from Lucio’s. Sure, it’s a little awkward, considering they’re now meeting him as her  _ boyfriend, _ but it’s not as bad as she thought it would be.

Even though Bellamy doesn’t seem to think so.

“Was it weird?” he demands, trailing after her as she lets herself into his apartment. “Did they— shit. Look, I may be overreacting, here, but I think Raven shot me a weird look when I asked for a poppy seed bagel.”

It takes everything in her to keep from bursting into  _ laughter _ , at this point, but Clarke manages, somehow. “Oh, my god,” she says, gasping. “Really?”

“ _ Yes.  _ What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It’s possible,” she says with exaggerated slowness, “that she’s taking offense because she’s on a gluten free diet.”

“Ah, fuck. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because someone’s clearly projecting,” she retorts, reaching up the flick at his chin. It catches him off guard, if the way he stumbles at it is any indication. “Seriously, you’re overreacting, here. They both liked you, okay?”

He makes an incomprehensible noise, scowling. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Well, that has to do with your paranoia more than anything,” she says absently, flicking through the stack of mail on the counter. She’s been getting stuff sent over, lately, mostly out of convenience, but she knows for a fact that Bellamy likes going through her subscriptions, too. Carefully, she sets aside this month’s National Geographic, grabs Frankie for herself. “Besides, what does it matter if they  _ do  _ hate you? I’m not going to stop dating you because they can’t stand the way you chew.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, considering his stricken expression.“I’m just,” he huffs, throwing his hands up. “Of course I care what they think, Clarke. They’re important to you, okay? They’re your family.”

(It’s in line with everything she knows about Bellamy, really, but it still throws her for a loop whenever he lets slip how much he  _ cares  _ about this; about wanting to integrate himself seamlessly into every aspect of her life. No one has tried, based on her long list of failed relationships.

Then again, it’s  _ Bellamy _ . It’s not like there’s anyone else out there like him, either.)

She swallows, tamping down the sudden swell of emotion rising to her throat. “Hey. They love you, okay? I promise I won’t lie to you about something like this.”

He softens at that, the tense set to his jaw relaxing infinitesimally. “Good,” he says, closing the distance between them to press a kiss to her forehead. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“So you don’t care if Raven is actually on a gluten-free diet?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says, making a face. “I have other things to worry about, you know. Like grading that final essay that’s worth forty percent of your grade?”

_ Right.  _ “About that,” she beams, trying valiantly to channel as much doe-eyed innocence she can muster. “I need to show you something before submitting it.”

He eyes her suspiciously. “If you take your top off, Clarke, even as a joke, I swear to god—”

“Hilarious,” she cuts in, rolling her eyes. “No, but seriously. Sit down on the couch, okay? Get comfortable. I’ll just be a minute.”

She darts off before he can say anything else, retrieving her materials from where she’s stashed them in record time. (In the twice broken oven, courtesy of her famous fish tacos.) Her palms are growing slick by the time she ducks back into the room, her stomach churning, but it feels right, somehow. Good.

“Okay,” Clarke starts, clearing her throat. “This, here, is my paper, okay? You can read it later. That’s not what’s important.”

“Clearly,” he says, raising his brows over at the sizable canvas in her hands. “What’s this?” 

“ _ Patience _ .”

“Rich, coming from you.” There’s no heat in the words, though, just a kind of fondness to it that makes her smile. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Long story short?” she gives a shaky laugh, licking her lips. “It’s a companion piece to my paper. And I want you to have it.” She flips it, then, before she can lose her nerve, showing him everything she’s been working on for the past month or so.

He’s quiet, at first, just taking it in, and she tries not to fidget under his scrutiny, the careful way he’s studying every inch of it. She traces the lines of the bridge of birds, the curve of the moon. Two figures standing in the dark, separated by miles and miles of light.

“It’s from the story you told me, the first time I stayed over,” she says, closing her eyes. Distantly, she realizes he’s taken her hand, the weight of it reassuring. “Two lovers separated eternally, by the milky way—”

“Get to meet one day per year, on a bridge of magpies,” he finishes softly. “He called for her everyday, until the Gods took pity on him. Some legends say that on other nights, he’s a star, watching from the other side. Waiting for that one chance to see her again.”

“Exactly that,” she tells him, running her thumb down the length of his fingers, over the groove of his knuckles. “So, not bad, huh? I wouldn’t say it’s a happy ending, entirely, but it’s cautiously optimistic.”

His voice is hoarse when he finally brings himself to speak, his eyes bright with some sort of emotion she can’t seem to place. “It’s a step in the right direction,” Bellamy smiles, leaning forward so that their foreheads touch. “Brave. Which is what I’m hoping what you’ll think of me, too, when I tell you this.” A beat, his hands tightening on hers. “I’m resigning.”

She jerks away, the motion instinctive. “You  what ?”

He remains unfazed, if anything, which she can’t help but admire him for. “I’m leaving,” he continues, “because I’ve accepted a job teaching high school, instead. A public school, to be specific. They need people like me there, Clarke. People who give a  _ shit. _ ”

“I know, but—”

“And because I love you,” he tells her, meeting her gaze levelly. Unwavering and unflinching and sure. “And I want a future with you. For as long as you’ll have me, at least.” He heaves a shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving her once. Holding her in place; holding her steady. “Because you’re it for me, Clarke Griffin.”

(It’s hard to think when he’s looking at her like that; all love and fierceness and absolute, utter conviction. But she knows, anyway, deep down that she doesn’t have to. That she’s  _ always  _ known, the second she made that drive to Abby’s house.)

“Good,” she tells him, her voice thick with emotion. “Because I love you, too.”

His smile is, possibly, the brightest thing she’s seen all her life. Biting back one of her own, she drops her head down onto his shoulder so she can breathe him in, nuzzling at the sensitive skin there. “And Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to have to look for a bigger place. One that comes with a better functioning oven.”

His laugh rumbles against her cheek, a soothing, lulling sensation; everything about him comforting and effortless and  _ home.  _ “Whatever the hell you want, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take this extra long chapter as an APOLOGY FOR HOW MANY TIMES I LEFT U GUYS HANGING ON CLIFFHANGERS


	14. XIV.

_ Five months later _

 

“Which one’s yours?”

Clarke startles, forcing her thoughts back into focus. “I’m sorry, what?”

The girl makes a impatient noise, adjusting at the tassel dangling off her cap. “The crowd,” she says, tilting her chin out at the masses. “Where are you gonna be looking at, the second you get up on that stage?”

“Oh,” she says, glancing out into the bright lights; the impossibly packed auditorium. She’s sweating underneath the robe, her hair plastering goofily under her cap, and there’s nothing more she wants to do than make a run for it, really.

But there are people out there who are  _ way  _ more invested in seeing her graduate than she is, so. Her mom is probably here, somewhere, and Raven, and Wells—

(She finds him in an instant, in a heartbeat.  _ There.  _ She wonders, sometimes, if love and gravity are a lot more intertwined than most people would like to think; that loving someone means being constantly, effortlessly pulled into their stratosphere.)

“There,” she says aloud, a stupid,  _ goofy  _ smile breaking out over her face. “Front row, to the left. The big nerd with the camcorder.”

“Ah,” the girl says, “boyfriend?”

“And then some,” she says, watching as he pulls his face back from the viewfinder, as if sensing her gaze on him, too. There’s those glasses, perched crookedly against his nose. The hair that’s constantly falling into his eyes. That heartbreaking, devastating smile. Bellamy.  _ Her  _ Bellamy. “We’ve been living together for a while now.” 

“That’s nice. You guys got anything planned, after this?”

(She shrugs, biding for time. How can she explain how there’s nothing better she can think of but walking off the stage, degree in hand, just to see him waiting for her on the other side? Just Bellamy, with his hand in hers, walking through the landmarks of their life before: the alcove, and his apartment, and the too small lecture hall where it all began.)

“Not much,” Clarke tells her, just as her name is announced, the lights blinding as she ascends the steps. Distantly, she thinks she sees one last flash of him by the corner of her eye, constant and steady and true: her compass pointing the way home. “But it’s enough.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who stuck with me throughout this fic, and gave LOTS of encouraging comments every chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and you're the reason I do what I do. Love y'all <3

**Author's Note:**

> Not to be That person but I'm just saying that there's scientific (cough, questionable) evidence that comments and kudos helps a author write faster. I'm just saying.


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